Premonitions
by CrazyKater
Summary: (3rd in a series. Sequel to Predicament) A month before two of his sons set out to Eastgate Ben Cartwright began to have a recurring bad dream. An AU take on the episode The Crucible.
1. Chapter 1

**Premonitions**

**July 22, 2019-**

A month before two of his sons set out to Eastgate Ben Cartwright began to have a recurring bad dream.

If he were a young man he may have called it a nightmare. With hair of white he was pushing sixty, considered older than he was young, and as such he was determined not to label his dream—as haunting and deeply unsettling as it was.

The dream was centered around his eldest son, a vast desert, and a steep cliff. In it he and Adam stood on the cliff. Adam was always so close to the edge—too close for a father to be comfortable, no matter his boy's age. His clothes were torn, dirty and tattered, his skin darkened, burned and blistered by the hot sun; his hair was slicked back with sweat and grime; his eyes a startling combination of bright and dull, wide and wild. He looked drunken with fever, his body swaying dangerously; he was always so close to falling off the edge.

_"Pa," _Adam whispered, his voice deep and dry. _"Do you think you can catch me?"_

_"What?"_ Ben asked breathlessly, his heart clenching with fear.

_"If I jumped, do you think you could make it to the bottom in time to catch me?" _

The question was always the same. Terror inducing and evocative and so unlike the inviolable man Ben had raised.

That was not to say that Adam wasn't fond of asking questions. It was one of his favorite pastimes. He had always been that way, even as a small child he had a thirst for knowledge that couldn't be quenched; a penchant for asking questions that Ben sometimes couldn't begin to come up with the answers to. Some of the answers Adam had learned at a young age he could find in books; when he had grown his quest for answers and knowledge had led him to college.

Adam was very fond of asking questions, though never in the way he had in Ben's recurring dream. Never with such resignation shining in his hazel eyes. Never with the intent to challenge his father's ability or desire to protect him.

Adam had never needed much in the way of protecting. He was always such a capable child. Smart, inquisitive, and mostly obedient. He had a few rough teenage years. What boy struggling to let go of childhood and grow into a man hadn't? Ben had never feared for his safety, at least not in the way he did with his youngest son.

Joe was always so impulsive and headstrong, easy to anger and quick to react. If Ben ever imagined he would experience unsettling dreams about any of his children, then he would have waged a firm bet they would have been about Joe.

Not Adam. Never Adam.

Ben never experienced the dream long enough to glean whether he had or had not been able to catch his son. He didn't even know if Adam had jumped. Still, waking suddenly, eyes wide and gasping, Ben was always overcome by the notion that Adam had, in fact, jumped and that he, himself, had not been quick enough to save him.

It was such a peculiar, reoccurring dream. The Adam in it so utterly opposite from the man Ben knew. By nature, Adam was stoic, levelheaded, intelligent, rational and self-reliant. Independent was the word Marie had used when she was alive.

_"That boy has a thoughtful mind and an independent streak at least ten miles long,"_ she had often said. _"He will make for a very fine man someday." _

Her words were eventually proven true, though she never lived long enough to see them come to fruition.

The dream, however, continuing to haunt Ben most every night, was something he prayed never would come to fruition. He hoped its persistence was not some kind of warning sent from above to caution him of something terrible to come. He tried to heed it in any case, because when a trip to Eastgate became necessary he had tried his best to keep Adam home.

"But I always go when we drive livestock that direction," Adam protested. Planting his hands on the top of the desk, he leaned over and looked at Ben with confusion in his eyes.

"That's as good of a reason as any for you stay home."

The dry landscape was another, so were the steep cliffs standing sporadically in the distance beyond the trail.

"But why?" Adam asked.

"You've been gone an awful lot lately, Adam. Nearly three weeks you spent in San Francisco on business and you haven't been back for more than three days and you're preparing to leave again."

"Then who's going to deliver the herd?" Neither Adam's confusion nor determination faltered.

"It's such a small herd, Little Joe can do it."

Hanging his head, Adam groaned. "By himself?" he questioned, looking up once more. "Are you really telling me that you'd rather send _him_ over _me_?"

Ben felt slightly guilty—and impressed by his eldest son's ability to refrain from pointing out his baby brother's flaws in order the shift the argument into his favor. Joe was spitfire, there was no denying that, and no telling what kind of trouble he'd get into should the opportunity arise.

"Then Hoss can go," Ben said firmly, his annoyance making itself known.

"He's been watching that pregnant mare for weeks. She's liable to foal any day, Pa. Hoss isn't going to want to miss that, not the way he's been looking after her."

Ben couldn't disagree. "Then I'll go," he countered.

"_You_?" Adam exclaimed.

The response was slightly insulting. For a split-second, Ben was tempted to bring up windmills and another journey Adam had insisted he embark on alone. He hadn't supported Adam leaving then either, but he had given in. The trip had ended badly; Adam had been hurt. It had taken weeks for him to heal—and for Ben to forgive himself for giving into his son's will when he had felt so strongly about not allowing him to go in the first place. He had had a premonition about that trip; he was determined not to ignore his supposed dreams about this one.

"Adam, the answer is no. Don't temp fate by asking me again."

Grinding his jaw and staring stubbornly for a few moments, Adam seemed intent on doing just that. Then, standing tall, he exhaled a hearty sigh.

It was an old instruction; as affective on his grown sons as it had been when they were little boys. Ben knew he was fortunate it still worked on his eldest. Adam's eventual acceptance of the warning was due to respect rather than true fear of what might come out of pressing his father further. He was a man, after all. There wasn't much Ben could do anymore to follow through. Still, he would do anything he could to protect his son—even if it was from something as silly as a bad, recurring dream.

There was a disappointment in Adam's eyes and deflated posture that didn't bode well with Ben. And acceptance of his father's warning, it seemed, didn't bode with Adam, because turning around to leave, he hesitated in place, then walked around the desk instead. Sitting on the edge of it, a few mere inches from Ben's chair, he fixed his eyes on the wall behind his father.

"Summer goes awfully fast around here, you know," he said softly. "Spring and Fall pass by a man before he even knows they've truly arrived. It'll be winter soon and then there won't be going much of anywhere at all, except for maybe the barn and some of the closer pasture."

"Adam—"

"Look, I know I've been gone a lot recently, but that's only because winter is on the horizon. I need to get out while I still can." Adam looked at Ben, his face uncharacteristically pleading. "You can understand that, can't you?"

As sad as it was to think about, Ben could. His son's insatiable appetite for knowledge had born him a wandering spirit that often led him away from home. Someday, Ben knew, it would lead him away for good. He was not eager to push him away before that day inevitably arrived. If this understanding wasn't enough to crumble his resolve then Adam's next words were.

"Papa, please," he whispered.

It was an old term, abandoned in early adolescence by all three of his sons. Adam, however, had retained it, only uttering it sporadically in private. He was a man now, after all; it simply wasn't appropriate to say it any more. Perhaps it was due to the infrequency of its use that made Ben so susceptible to it. Or maybe it was because by saying the word, Ben knew Adam was really trying to say something else.

_Let me go, Pa—_in this instance, Ben knew that was what the word really meant. _Let me go now so I come back to you. Let us have a few more good years before the winters become much too long to bear anymore._

"Alright," Ben conceded and Adam smiled so wide his face beamed. "But you're not going alone. Take Joe with you."

Xx

"I want a telegraph when you arrive at Eastgate and another before you leave," Ben instructed as he watched his eldest and youngest sons preparing to leave.

It was an exaggerated demand. Startling and odd, the proof of which was reflected on his youngest son's face.

"Two telegraphs?" Joe scoffed. "That's a bit much, ain't it, Pa?"

"Okay," Adam agreed easily. He grinned evilly, looking at Joe as he cinched his saddle taunt. "But, Pa, you really don't have to worry. I promise to keep your troublesome baby son safe."

Joe scowled. "I don't know about that, older brother. I think those worried words may have been aimed at you, seeing as you were the one Pa was lookin' at when he said them."

"They were aimed at both of you," Ben said.

The words soothed one son and riled another. Eyes narrowing, Adam cast Ben a tired glance.

"Look after one another," Ben continued. His irrational worry for Adam made him feel like a sentimental old man. What was the harm in sounding like one too? "And take it easy in the Eastgate saloon. I expect you both to be back by the end of the week."

"The end of the week?" Joe protested. "But that only leaves time enough to get there and come back."

"I said what I meant to," Ben said firmly as he frowned at Joe. "I'll tolerate no opinions from you."

After a moment his face softened slightly, when Joe had the decency to appear adequately chastised. The expression was counterfeit—any old fool could see that. Just as any old fool could see the frustration on Adam's face was authentic. He wasn't happy about the instructions either—any of them.

When was the last time he had requested Adam send two telegraphs or take it easy in a strange town's bar? He and Adam both knew the answer, just as they knew the requests were tiresome and unnecessary.

"On with you then," Ben said. "Enjoy the trip; the Ponderosa and I will be here when you both get back."

He couldn't bear to watch Adam go, so he turned and walked to the house instead. He had only made it inside when he was assaulted by such a feeling of overwhelming wrongness that he had to fight to prevent himself from rushing outside and pulling Adam off his horse.

The door creaked open behind him, followed by a single word, "Pa?"

Ben turned as Adam approached him. "Yes?" he said, forcing a smile as his son's stood before him.

Adam looked hesitant and Ben crushed the urge to haul him upstairs and lock in him in his bedroom. He only wanted his son to be safe. What harm could come to a boy in his bedroom where it was safe and warm? Adam wasn't a boy anymore, making such a wish impossible to make true.

"Yes, son?" Ben prompted when Adam showed no sign of ever speaking.

Adam stepped forward and pulled his father into a tight hug. It was an atypical farewell from his eldest, one which only served to intensify Ben's fear.

"Promise me," he whispered, his deep voice close to his son's ear. "That you'll be safe."

"I promise," Adam vowed.

Even in the moment, Ben felt as though it was a promise destined to be broken.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Ben's dream continued reoccurring in Adam's absence.

Even so, the week passed quickly. The first telegraph from Adam and Joe came and so did the foal Hoss had been anticipating. It was a fine addition, a colt by the looks of him; Ben's middle son couldn't have been more excited if he was the stallion who sired it.

A second telegraph followed the first; it was not news Ben wanted to hear. His eldest and youngest sons had conspired against him, deciding they were deserving of a few days off. The second telegraph didn't promise a third, rather that they would return at the end of the following week. Ben had been nearly as furious as he was anxious. Then, eventually, a third telegraph did come and he was swiftly reacquainted with his fear.

Adam had ventured off into the desert outside of Eastgate alone. He had been robbed, stripped of his horse and whatever else. Joe had found Sport; Adam was still missing, lost among steep cliffs reminiscent of the one in his father's dream. Ben and Hoss met up with Joe quickly and together they embarked on what would become to feel like a desperate, foolish search. There were miles to cover; rough, rugged and barren, the landscape was as unforgiving as the heat of the sun—something the three of them didn't dare give voice to. There was little point in discussing the heat of the sun, the danger of the land, or Adam's slim chances of survival past the first few days after being robbed. Rough estimation advised that would have been nearly a week ago now.

They fired their guns into the air, one, two, three hopeful shots of alert, and they called out Adam's name. Hoping and praying that if he were still alive then he would be able to hear their voices and be reassured that they were looking for him, or, better yet, that he would shout back and let them know he was somewhere in the distance waiting to be found.

Adam never responded to any of the yells.

They found Adam's holster discarded in the sand. Black, worn and achingly familiar, Ben held the item in shaking hands as he inspected it, searching for physical verification it was what he thought. His fingertips eventually found what he was seeking, branded on the inside of the leather the initials _AC_. They were worn nearly flat now as the holster was growing old; it had been a gift to a son from his father nearly ten years ago.

Holding the holster tightly, turning it in-between his hands, Ben felt increasingly old as he was reminded of the occasion and what had prompted the gift. There had been nothing wrong with the brown holster Adam had carried before this one; it hadn't needed replacing. Upon his return from college Adam had begun favoring dark clothes, and, to Ben, matched with dark pants and shirts, something about the lighter, brown leather had begun to seem a little off.

When Adam had traveled back East, he had left still displaying small remnants of the uncertainty of a boy and he returned with the assurance of a man. The evolution in his appearance only seemed to reinforce the fact that he had grown and changed. Ben was proud of the man Adam had become in during his years away, the gift of the back holster had been somehow needed to signify this fact.

Taking great care in placing Adam's holster in his saddle bag, Ben continued searching for his son.

He didn't sleep during those days—or nights—despite the incessant worry of his other two sons. He was afraid he would fall victim to the dream once again. As unnerving as it was to experience when he had known Adam was safe, experiencing it while his son was missing would be unbearable. Still, he found himself preoccupied with cliffs. They were a hard thing to ignore out here, standing tall and jagged in nearly every direction. He investigated all them, the tops and bottoms, half-wishing, hoping and praying they would stumble upon the Adam. Each cliff was as unfruitful as the one before, empty and evidence-less. Adam was nowhere to be found.

They continued like this for days until, overcome by exhaustion, Ben hung his head. Seemingly feeling his despair, his horse hesitated in place, obediently waiting to be given orders to continue. Weary and grief-stricken, Ben couldn't conceive of ordering anyone to do anything. His thoughts were burdened with memories of Adam. He had become increasingly haunted by what was to become their final farewell, tortured by reappraisal of the decisions he couldn't take back.

He hadn't wanted Adam to travel to Eastgate because of his premonitory dream, so why on earth did he let him go?

And why had Adam followed him into the house and hugged him before he left?

It was such an odd thing for him to do. It was an indulgent action, odd in the most glaring way. Adam wasn't in the habit of hugging people; he was such a reserved man. He didn't necessarily shy away from physical affection, rather he preferred more moderate displays. A handshake or a hand on an arm, shoulder or back. Since he reached adulthood, Ben had never known Adam to initiate an embrace—at least not under normal circumstances.

Could the day Adam and Joe left the Ponderosa and set out for Eastgate be considered a normal one?

With his palpable fear about Adam's safety lingering, Ben had to admit it probably wasn't, and Adam was intuitive by nature. Ben was certain Adam had known he was nervous, just as he was certain Adam had wanted to conform to his wishes and return home on time, but his yearning for fresh air and open space was stronger than his desire to adhere to his father's direction.

Was that the reason for gift of the hug? Had Adam known before he left home that he would leave Joe behind in Eastgate and venture into the wilderness alone under the guise of needing time in nature to hunt and then fish and enjoy what was left of summer before it was over too soon?

Adam had wanted to get away before the weather turned; it was how he had justified wanting to go in the first place. Ignoring his dream, Ben had allowed him to go, because he had had a premonition about Adam eventually leaving too, though death wasn't the way he had ever foreseen his eldest son disappearing from his life.

Adam wanted to get out, so he had, and now that he was gone, he was never coming home.

"Pa," Joe said quietly, finally summoning the courage to say the truth they all knew. "We're gonna have to face it, we're not going to find Adam."

"Pa," Hoss said. "It's been two weeks since he left Eastgate. He couldn't have survived."

The statement was devastating, achingly permanent, and unavoidably true. While Ben didn't want to give up, he could no longer keep going.

He glanced back, casting long looks at each of his remaining sons and saw his own internal anguish etched on their faces. The expressions of both his sons hinted at guilt. Joe was bound to feel responsible for agreeing to Adam's suggestion of taking a few days off and allowing him head off alone. Ben knew, Hoss felt guilt for agreeing with Joe about abandoning the search for Adam, as giving up on his older brother was nearly an impossible thing for Hoss to do.

Adam and Hoss were very close—all three of his boys were. They respected, protected, fought, and loved each other, but the bond between Adam and Hoss was different than that which either of them shared with Joe. Maybe it was due to a gap in their respective ages or the discrepancies in their childhoods.

Adam had come along when his father had still been a younger man than Joe currently was, Hoss had been born years after and Joe would come later. Much, much later, once the Ponderosa was already established and Ben was well on his way to becoming a wealthy man. Joe hadn't known a day of difficulty or poverty a day his life. It was Adam and Hoss who had been forced to grow up rough and fast. It bonded them together in an incredible way, leaving their loyalties to one another nearly impenetrable.

Giving up Adam—for the first time in his life—was killing Hoss inside. Ben knew this because it was killing him too.

"Alright," he said gruffly. Sitting upon his horse on the top of a rocky hillside, Ben looked at the land below and willed himself not to give into the tears that felt so close. "Let's go on home."

The second he said the words he wanted to take them back. Soon he would, because eyes widening with surprise, Ben's gaze locked on a man stumbling across the earth below.

He blinked rapidly, struggling to believe his eyes, then lifted his hand, and bellowed, "Adam! ... Adam! ... Adam!"

With the words he was off, both sons following closely behind. Leaping off his horse, Ben reached Adam first, who had fallen to his knees on the ground and begun to crawl forward.

"Adam," Ben repeated, his stomach turning. His son was beaten and dirty and _laughing_ of all things.

"Adam," he repeated. Grabbing hold beneath Adam's armpits, he began hoisting him back to his feet.

Joe stood opposite and assisted the best he could. "Adam," he echoed worriedly.

"Adam, Adam, Adam," Hoss said insistently. Coming to stand behind, he grasped Adam's upper arms, holding him upright and near his chest.

His feet and arms still moving weakly, Adam shook his head in an uncoordinated manner and continued laughing, a dry, haunting, maniacal sound. "There's no gold," he said, in-between laughs. "There's _no_ _gold_."

Holding on to Adam's arm tightly, Ben was taken aback as a horrible reality was beginning to sink in. Hair slicked back with grime, Adam's clothes were torn, dirty and tattered; his skin was darkened, burned and blistered by the hot sun. His eyes were a startling combination of bright and dull, wide and wild. The son who had disappeared into the desert nearly two weeks ago was gone; he was looking at the Adam from his dreams.

_Do you think you can catch me? _Adam's question from the dream circled Ben's mind. _Pa, can you? _

"There's no gold," Adam laughed. "There never was any _damn_—"

"_ADAM_!" Ben bellowed, suddenly unable to reconcile his unease. He was regretful about the volume of his voice, but if anything was going snap Adam out of this state of madness then it would be the promise of becoming the focus of his father's fury.

Closing his eyes, Adam ceased laughing immediately. Body becoming rigid, he momentarily tried to stand up straight.

Hoss loosened his grip on his brother, hoping he was finally coming to.

Adam stood on shaking legs, his face crumbling with sheer devastation. "Oh, Papa!" he cried, his feet giving out beneath him as he dissolved into deep-chested sobs.

It was the word that told Ben everything and nothing at the same time. Whatever his son had endured had been bad, the details of which he couldn't begin to suppose.

Never being privy to Adam saying the word nor crying in adulthood, Joe was shocked, as was Hoss who, momentarily stunned, lost his grip on his older brother's arms.

_No, _Ben thought as Adam began to fall.

_Can you catch me? _The memory of Adam's voice echoed.

This time, Ben could, and he did.

Adam sobbed harder as Ben lowered him safely on the ground, then paused as Joe wiped a water covered hand across his mouth, trying to moisten his dry and cracked lips.

"He was dragging a dead man, Pa," Hoss said.

Ben didn't know what to say or think. So fervent was his worry for his son that he didn't realize Adam had been in the company of anyone else. Holding the canteen to Adam's lips, he helped him take a small drink.

As soon as the canteen left his mouth, Adam was crying again and weakly struggling to bridge the gap between he and his father. Though Ben was shaken by the desperate action, he knew what to do—what he and Adam both needed for him to do. Pulling Adam close, he held and rocked him, rubbing slow circles on his back. He didn't say a word. Surely this was moment he was destined to look back on with some kind of contrition, a bothersome feeling that for a man who always had such wise things to say to each of his sons, he should have been able to say something. In the moment, he found himself without any words at all.

It wasn't that Ben didn't want to comfort his crying son with reassurances. It was that he almost couldn't believe his eyes—or that the weight in his arms was actually real. Stumbling through the desert beneath the cliff where they had paused, Adam had appeared out of seemingly nowhere. One moment he hadn't been there, the next he was, and now he was in Ben's arms. Ben struggled to reconcile how any of it had come about. He had given up; they had abandoned their search. Only minutes ago, he had believed his son was dead, now Adam was here, his deliriousness demanding for Ben to hold him closer than what had been allowed in years.

Eventually, Adam quieted, his body growing completely lax. Feeling a jolt of panic, Ben finally loosed his embrace, struggling to crane his head to get a good look at Adam's face, just to verify that he was breathing, just to ensure he was indeed still alive.

Hoss's hand squeezed his shoulder. "He's fine, Pa," he reassured. "Just beat up and exhausted. He passed out." He cast a troublesome look at sky. "We still got some daylight left. What do you reckon we ought to do?"

"Pa," Joe chimed in, his voice unusually serious. Seated cross-legged on the ground a few paces away, he rested his elbows on his knees, his chin on the tops of his fists. "We should get going."

"We shouldn't stay here," Hoss said. "Adam needs to see a doctor; he needs to have his wounds cleaned out. Ain't no telling how long some of them cuts have been festering and his clothes are nasty dirty. I'm sure I don't have to tell you this, seeing as you're the one holding him close, he smells something fierce; he needs to be cleaned up proper and we ain't equipped to deal with none of this."

"He's right," Joe said.

"Eastgate is three quarters of a day's journey from here," Ben said. He wondered how on earth Adam was going to cope with ride. How were any of them were going to cope with the memories of the last two weeks?

"Then we best get after it," Hoss said.

TBC

* * *

**Author Note:** Okay… so maybe the bit about Adam's clothes and gun belt weren't cannon, but I became so attached to the idea the second I wrote it that it had to stay. I hope you understand. I'm sure I'll sneak some other non-canonical things into this before it's over… I hope you understand that too. ; )


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back to Eastgate was pure misery.

They tied the unknown dead man's body over the rear of Joe's horse and, each on their respective horses, Hoss and Ben took turns holding Adam. Two grown men riding a horse double was difficult under ideal circumstances; given Adam's current state, it was an arduous task. Whatever recognition of safety had dawned upon him minutes after being found hadn't lasted; he was either unconscious, his body heavy, limp, and in danger of falling off, or he was semi-conscious, anxious, confused, and fighting their grip.

"I want to get away from you," Adam whispered desolately, over and over again. "I just... want to… get away."

"Don't I know it, older brother," Hoss responded after Adam had repeated the statement for what felt like a hundredth time. Holding Adam's back firmly against his chest, he grimaced and spoke to him as though he was negotiating with a small child. "I'll tell you what, Adam, you quit being so wriggly, let me get a good hold on you so you don't fall, then when we get where we're goin', I'll let you go."

Hoss's words placated Adam for the rest of the journey—or maybe it was that he had grown too weary or resigned to fight anymore.

They rode long past twilight, arriving in Eastgate before sunrise. The moon cast an eerie hue on the small town as they traveled the thoroughfare, illuminating the gallows which was being built in the center of the small town.

"I thought they weren't gonna hang Obadiah Johnson," Joe said quietly. "The judge only sentenced him to five years."

Shaking his head, Ben silently dismissed the statement; he didn't know what Joe was talking about.

"Is that the trial you stayed behind to take in?" Hoss asked.

Joe looked at Adam, who was still sitting in front of Hoss. "Yeah," he said.

Ben saw immense guilt reflect on his youngest son's face and anguish shining his green eyes; he knew Joe was in need of a discussion to ease the pain and guilt he felt because of what happened to Adam. But at that moment, one son's need for his father's attention surpassed another; Joe would have to wait.

Halting his horse in front of the small boarding house, Ben dismounted and moved to stand by Hoss's, raising his tired arms to steady Adam's unconscious form as he began giving orders.

"Joe, see if you can fetch the doctor, send him our way and then go find the sheriff. Hoss, I'm going to see if I can get us a room."

Adam's face was pale, ashen against the contrast of Hoss's shirt.

"He's burnin' up, Pa," Hoss said. "Fever."

Pressing his palm against Adam's heated skin, Ben didn't need to be told how frightening of a prospect that was.

"Joe," he said as his youngest son jumped off his horse. "Hurry."

Xx

They obtained two rooms in the boarding house.

When the Eastgate doctor arrived, Ben ordered his two younger sons to converse with the sheriff regarding how they had come to find Adam and the strange man's body that had been in his possession. Neither Hoss nor Joe had wanted to leave Adam; they put forth a convincing argument in effort to be allowed to remain. Suddenly overtaken by the oddest of tempestuous feelings, a fervent need to protect his eldest's privacy, Ben wouldn't hear of them staying. Though had failed to protect Adam from whatever he had endured in the desert, he could shield him from future embarrassment.

Adam had always been such a private man, expressing pain, fear, and weakness in modest ways. He wasn't prone to overly emotional fits—save angry ones. While Hoss may have been privy to Adam's tears a handful of times in his life, Ben questioned whether Joe had. There was such a distance between their ages; it didn't seem likely Adam would have ever allowed such a thing. He had always been so careful to portray himself as inviolable in Joe's eyes with impenetrable wisdom and infallible strength. It was something Ben had always thought a little foolish, because no matter how hard a man tried to remain unbreakable, there always came an occasion when God and destiny saw fit to bring him to his knees.

Uncertain of the details, Ben was acutely aware Adam had been brought to his knees in the desert outside of Eastgate and not only had he seen the result of what had happened out there but Hoss and Joe had too. They had heard their older brother refer to their father as "Papa", they had watched him cling to Ben and sob, and they endured his desperate cries to be let go during their return to Eastgate. They had heard and seen it all and that was more than enough.

_Enough is enough_, Ben had thought while he firmly ordered Hoss and Joe to vacate the room. And in this case, it was already too much.

Adam was in rough shape; suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, it appeared as though he had been overworked and perhaps suffered more than one beating. The damage to his face seemed superficial; the swelling of his split-lip, inflamed cheekbone, and black eye would heal, as would the scratches and bruises marring his back, arms, and hands. To Ben, these were familiar injuries, some predicable outcomes of a fight and others more disquieting. If he didn't know better, from the shapes and placement of some of the cuts and the blisters covering the insides of Adam's hands, he would have thought that his son had been digging for a prolonged period of time. This was a deduction he struggled to make sense of.

Why would Adam do such a thing? Why would it be required? And for what gain? Ben's imagination wandered ceaselessly, torturing him with theories of how or why the injuries had been sustained. What was Adam digging? A hole? A shelter? A grave?

It wasn't until he absently recalled Adam's confused statements about gold that he began to consider a mine. Although that didn't make much sense either, because the landscape on which Adam had been found had no reputation of ever containing the precious and lucrative substance. Many men had tried over the years to mine the brutal land and, as far as he knew, none had succeeded.

Mining had always been a bit of a pet project for Adam. He had full control over the small operation on the Ponderosa because it interested him and he knew a lot about it. This was enough to make Ben wonder if, out in the wilderness and ensnared to a sudden fantastical notion,

Adam had decided to give the land a shot. Something about this theory seemed off, because while Ben knew searching for anything beneath the crust of the barren land was destined to be a fruitless fool's errand, Adam had too. Adam had known the land contained nothing of value, so why would he even try?

Along with all these questions there was something else to worry about. Deep, red and angry, there were robe burns on both of Adam's wrists. Ben wasn't sure if he should attribute these injures to men who had robbed his sone or the dead one Adam had been dragging around.

"That dead man you found with your boy, you ever seen him before?" the doctor asked. Filling a glass with water, he mixed a white powder in, his attention never waning from Ben.

The way the man was considering him was odd, even expression and dark eyes seemingly flickering with a fortitude Ben couldn't begin to understand.

"No."

"That's fortunate for you." The doctor sat on the edge of the bed where Adam lay. "Not so fortunate for your son, I'm afraid."

"What do you mean by that?" Ben asked. "Did you know that man?"

The doctor shook his head, his attention shifting to Adam. "Hello," he said.

Eyes clouded with feverish confusion, Adam glared at him in return.

"I'm here to help you," the doctor continued, his tone even and calm. "First, I need you to drink this, so you can relax, then me and your pa are going to clean you up. You're going to fall asleep at some point while we do, and, lord willing, when you wake up you won't remember any of it."

Ben thought the explain a bit odd. He had never known a situation where a doctor took the time to explain anything to a patient who was as tired and confused as Adam was. Still, he appreciated the care the man was taking in allowing his normally poised son at least some illusion of control.

Adam, however, did not.

"Get away from me," he said, his voice tired and hoarse. Back pressed against the headboard, Adam assessed the strange man with an astounding level of hatred. He struggled to move away from him but his exhausted limbs and bewildered mind left him weak and uncoordinated and rooted to the bed. "I-I just want to get away."

"Well, you did," the doctor countered. Extending the glass, he moved to press it to Adam's broken lips. "You got away and now you're here with us."

Struggling to push the glass away, Adam's hand was uncoordinated and slow and no match for the doctor's sturdy one as he pulled it safely out of Adam's reach.

The doctor looked at Ben. "He always this skeptical of the intentions of strangers?" he asked.

_Sometimes_, Ben thought. _But not like this. Never like this. _

Kneeling next to the bed, Ben placed one hand on Adam's shoulder and the other on his son's chest. "Adam," he said gently, hoping his voice would be enough to calm his son's agitation. "It's alright."

Stirring uncomfortably beneath his father's hands, Adam refused to be soothed. "I just want to get away," he said, his voice cracking as his expression crumbled again. "I-I just want to g-get a-away."

"I already told you did," the doctor reminded.

Ben didn't appreciate the doctor's rebuttal. "He's confused," he said, his voice carrying a bit of a dangerous edge. "Don't you understand that?"

"Oh, I understand it," the doctor assured. "As much as I'd rather not."

Ben's anger was ignited. "If you don't want to care for my son then you just say so."

The doctor was neither intimidated or impressed. "Here," he said, handing Ben the glass. "Get as much of this into him as you can, wait for him to fall asleep and then have one of your other boys fetch me again."

"How can you—!"

"Mister Cartwright, it is damn near dawn; I have no intention of starting off this day with a fight with either you or your boy. Trust me, it'll be easier on you and less traumatic for him if I go now and come back when he's not aware of my presence."

With that, the doctor left both room and Ben wondering what kind of doctor the man really was. Good or bad, it probably didn't make much difference, because either way Adam was in need of tending. The retreating doctor was the only option they had.

It took time, a lot of coaxing, and eventually little firmer tone than Ben would have liked to use to get Adam to drink what the doctor had left. During that time, he endured his son's chaotic behavior and words. One moment his son seemed to know he was there and the next he didn't.

Ben didn't know which was more agonizing, having Adam not recognize and fight him or having his identity distinguished only to watch Adam tearfully declare that his father wasn't real and just another game.

It was Adam's persistent tears that unsettled Ben the most. For a man—and boy—who had never been quick to cry, whatever Adam had endured had been bad enough to open up a well inside of him that seemed bound to never run dry.

Eventually—thankfully—Adam did fall asleep. Overcome by exhaustion, Ben did too.

Once again, he dreamed of standing on the edge of the cliff. Their ominous surroundings and Adam's bedraggled appearance had remained the same. Holding his arms out wide, he stood on the edge; back turned from the horizon and what lay on the ground below, his eyes were focused solely on his father. He looked oddly stoic, strangely detached from the danger of where he stood and concern of the man in front of him.

_"__Adam,"_ Ben tried. He watched in horror has Adam took a step back. _"Stop, now." _

Taking another step back, Adam refused to abide by his father's order.

_"__Adam!"_ Ben ordered as firmly as he could. _"Don't take another step!"_

Ignoring the command, Adam took another step back. Unable to the support his weight, the thin edge of the cliff was beginning to crumble beneath the worn soles of his boots, but he didn't seem to notice. His only focus was on his father.

_"__Can you catch me?"_ Adam asked finally. His expression suddenly eager and hopeful, making him appear younger than he had in years. _"Pa, can you?"_

Ben woke with a start. Lying on an unfamiliar bed, he was momentarily disoriented, taken aback by the strange room. Emitting a painful grunt, he sat up, blinked and then squinted his eyes against the faint sunlight filtering in from behind the lightly colored curtains. Casting his gaze upon the room, his attention focused on the bed opposite the one he occupied and he finally recalled the events that had brought him there.

Tucked beneath a thin blanket, Adam was sleeping soundly. He appeared much cleaner than he had last time Ben saw him. Hair slightly wet and wounds clean, he appeared to have been bathed before redressed in an unfamiliar nightshirt. He looked better, not fine but finally peaceful and relaxed.

Expelling a hearty sigh of relief, Ben's gaze shifted and he was surprised at what he saw.

Sitting vigil on the chair next to Adam's bed was Hoss. "Hi, Pa," he greeted quietly, his face set in an indecipherable expression.

"Son?"

"Adam's doing okay." Hoss neither looked away from Adam nor did his strange expression change. "Doctor came and went. I helped tend to Adam and kept Little Joe of the room like you wanted." Tilting his head, he scoffed thickly. "Not that that was too hard, anyway. You're gonna have to talk to Joe; he's not taking what happened to Adam too well. I suppose none of us are or will."

"Where is Joe?" Ben asked.

"Saloon."

Frowning, Ben suppressed the urge to order Hoss to fetch his youngest. He didn't approve of Joe spending his time drinking away his supposed self-condemnation and lingering guilt. He didn't like it but what was the purpose of pulling Joe away from the respite of the saloon back to the stagnance of the boarding house?

Adam was asleep; there would be no information or reassurance to be gleaned from him—at least at the moment. Try as Ben may to sooth his youngest son's self-imposed culpability the only person who could really do that was Adam. Ben knew, Adam would never hold Joe responsible for what had happened, because, after all, according to Joe, the idea to take a few days off had been Adam's. Adam had always been as stubborn as he was strong; once he put his mind to something there was just no stopping him. Though Joe may have thought he agreed to allow his brother to venture off alone for the a few days, he hadn't really had a choice.

"It might be best if I go join Joe," Hoss said, as though privy to his father's uneasy thoughts. "Now that you're awake and able to sit with Adam. With the way Joe's feeling, there ain't no telling what he may be getting into."

"I'd appreciate that." Ben nodded at Adam. "How did the doctor fare the second time around."

"Fine. Like I said, I helped him. Adam slept through it all. We cleaned out his wounds, gave him as good of a bath as we could manage. Doc left some sleeping powder and a salve."

"Did he say anything else?"

"We gotta keep him as cool as possible until that fever breaks, pray that the warmth of his body is due to the sun and not infection. With some of those wounds, Doc said there's just no telling what's causing Adam's body to heat. We're to keep him quiet and calm and use the sleep powder if he keeps getting overly upset."

While it wasn't the best news, it was far from the worst. Still, Ben struggled with it. They may have been able to force Adam to sleep now but would come after his fever broke? What would happen when his confusion ebbed enough for him to become cognizant, aware of his body and words? Or worse, what if it never did? What were any of them supposed to say or do then?

Focusing his dark eyes in the bandages covering Adam's wrists, Ben was reminded of his son's wounds, the ones he had seen and the supposed others he hadn't.

"How bad were his injuries?" Ben asked. "Is there anything in particular I should know about?"

Unwilling to look at his father, Hoss didn't readily reply. "No, sir," he sighed after a few moments passed, his gaze now focused on the floorboards. "There is something else, though. Doc said that we oughta keep Adam quiet now and then later, when he starts to come out of it, we need keep quiet about how we found him, what he said or did. He said certain experiences, certain injuries, have a way of eating away at a man if too many people are privy to them, especially his pride." He looked at Ben sadly. "That's the bit that worries me the most, Pa. You know Adam as well as I do; he don't act the way he's been since we found 'em. Whatever happened out in the desert, it hurt him. It cut him real deep."

Ben couldn't disagree. Never in Adam's life had he been witness to how his son was currently acting. No matter how sick, sad, hurt, angry, or afraid, Adam had never behaved the way he had since he'd been found.

"What's going to happen when he comes to?" Hoss asked, echoing Ben's silent fear. "What's gonna happen if he don't?"

"He'll be fine," Ben said firmly. "He always is." He wondered how many times and with how much force he would have repeat the statement before it would be enough for either of them to truly believe it.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

It took three days for Adam's fever to break and then another for him to finally become aware of what was going on around him.

Ordering Hoss and Joe to sleep in the other rented room, Ben was firm in his instruction that he be the only one to tend to Adam's wounds, change the thin nightshirt he wore or bedclothes when the inevitable happened and demanded such a thing be done. Captive to fever, slipping in and out of consciousness, Adam could hardly be expected to keep control over his bodily functions. The order was more easily accepted by his youngest son than by his middle one. Joe had looked slightly relieved, but Hoss had appeared mildly offended. Adam and Hoss held next to no secrets from one another, surely Adam wouldn't have minded if Hoss assisted their father with taking care of him. It was Ben who minded—and Adam, he was certain, would have minded too had he been in the right frame of mind to speak for himself.

Harboring guilt for the way he had fallen asleep, abandoning both Hoss and Adam when the doctor had returned, Ben was desperate to safeguard all his sons against any undesirable situations. He was their father, after all. If anyone should have been looking after Adam in such intimate ways then it should be him.

The sound of hammering outside, the unbearable noise of medal being pounded into wood as the sheriff and his deputy continued erecting the gallows for Obadiah Johnson's impending death, wore on Ben's nerves. The days that passed before his son woke felt as though they were some of the longest of his life, which was shocking in comparison to some of the others he had managed to live through. He had lost three wives and endured too many difficulties to count, but this was somehow worse than any of that.

Adam slept fitfully at first, his slumber frequently and violently interrupted by nightmares he would suddenly awaken from captive to a confusion so fervent that he refused to be calmed. Ben had been left with no other choice but to utilize the sleeping powder the doctor had left.

Imprisoned by deep induced sleep, Adam remained unconscious and quiet. Ben couldn't help feeling as though seeing his son drugged into extended peaceful sleep was somehow worse than being forced to watch him cry. It was worse than having his own reoccurring bad dreams, worse than having Adam lost in the desert for two weeks, worse than finding him on foot, dragging a dead man while completely captive to the disorientation of his own mind. It was worse than knowing the dead man's name, worse than seeing the swollen lacerations on the man's neck and immediately thinking he had been strangled, and it was worse than having the Eastgate Sheriff confirm his suspicions and fears.

"The dead man's name is Peter Kane," the sheriff had volunteered in an even tone. "Appears to me like he was strangled first, then maybe he succumbed to the injury while your boy was dragging him around the desert." He shrugged in an indifferent manner. "I won't be pressing any charges against your son. Kane was devil of a man, consider yourself fortunate if you never crossed his path. If your son really did kill him then he probably deserved it."

Later the doctor confirmed what the sheriff believed. Kane had been strangled but the injury hadn't killed him; he had succumbed to the elements. This was something that Ben longed to tell Adam if he could just figure out how. There were so many things he wanted to ask his son if only his questions could be understood and properly answered, because his conversations with both the doctor and the sheriff had left him wondering how much more the people in the town Eastgate knew about supposed evils of Peter Kane and how much Adam now knew himself. It was an unsettling prospect, as a father, to have not one but two respected pillars of the small community allude to Kane's abhorrent nature; their implications coupled with Adam's bedlam behavior awoke a trepidation so fervent Ben was certain it would never be calmed.

What had happened in the desert? How had Adam come to be in Kane's company? And what on earth had that man done to his son?

These were questions that seemed destined to remain without answers.

Waking on the fourth day, his eyes no longer glazed with fever or clouded with confusion rather something else, Adam denied recalling anything that happened after being robbed. He didn't remember walking the desert, being found by his family, or anything about a man named Peter Kane.

Watching his son closely, noting the weakness of Adam's voice and how he wasn't keen on looking him in the eye, Ben suspected his son was lying. This was a suspicion he quickly silenced, immediately deciding if Adam was lying then it was something he would allow— at least for now— as the doctor had advised not to push for the truth. It was advice he torturously second-guessed, considered and reconsidered, over and over again.

No good ever came from avoiding truth, no matter how traumatic or painful. There would come a time when it would need to be owned up to and dealt with, though the correct timing of a such a thing still remained to be foreseen. Adam had only just woken up, he had only just stopped yelling and crying, Ben was not eager to bring up topics that might encourage the alarming behaviors to resurface. That wasn't to say that Adam was acting normal. Still visibly exhausted and wounded, he was remarkably passive and agonizingly quiet. Too quiet for Ben to feel at ease.

Encouraging Adam to drink more water, Ben held the glass to his son's lips and tilted it back. He was only slightly disappointed when the helpful action was allowed. He had expected Adam to reassert his independence, making a loosely veiled sarcastic comment about have been capable of holding a drinking glass on his own for years. Adam accepted his assistance without comment.

"Was Hoss here or did I dream that part?" Adam asked. His voice was ragged and hoarse, left raspy and coarse by his extended sobs and screams. Avoiding looking at his father, he set tired eyes upon on the room.

"Both of you brothers are here," Ben assured.

"A different room?" Adam slowly reasoned. "This room's big enough for all of us, isn't it?"

"It is, but you needed quiet and you know how loud and rambunctious that youngest brother of yours can be."

"Hoss too, on occasion."

Pleased by the mild joke, Ben smiled.

"Pa?" Adam asked. His hands moved idly, clenching and unclenching handfuls of the thin blanket which covered him. It was an odd action, trepidatious and compulsive; Ben noted it immediately.

"Yes," he said.

"When are we going home?"

It was a startling question from a man who had taken so much pleasure spending as much of the spring, summer and fall away from the ranch as he could. Ben felt his worry build, then he forced himself to dismiss the feeling and the oddness of his son's question. He had been hurt, of course Adam would be eager to return to the safety and familiarity of home.

"Oh, another few days or so," Ben said. "You've only just begun to feel better. I am not eager to see you on the back on your horse in the midday heat."

Brows knitting, Adam's face contorted sadly. "Pa?" he asked again.

"Yes."

"Sport's gone."

"No, he isn't," Ben assured. "Joe found him. He's being cared for by your brothers alongside the rest of our horses."

Adam was momentarily visibly relieved, then his expression became nervous once more. "Pa?" he asked for a third time, his tight fists clenching handfuls of the blanket.

"Yes, son."

"The money for the cattle is gone. Those men, they took it from me when they took Sport."

"I know. It's alright."

"How can it be? Five thousand dollars is a lot of money to lose."

"I don't care about the money. I'm grateful I didn't lose you."

The conflict of Adam's expression made it clear he didn't agree with his father's acceptance or gratitude. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

Adam didn't respond to his father's palliative statement. Turning away from Ben, he rolled on to his side and closed his eyes, his hands still clenching the blanket. It wasn't long until his feigned dozing became a reality.

Xx

They remained in Eastgate for nearly a week before Ben deemed Adam healthy enough for the trip home. It was an excessive requirement—Ben was aware of that. Adam could have survived the ride the day he woke up without a fever. But Ben didn't want Adam to merely survive, he wanted him to heal. He wanted all of his sons to heal—something he was beginning to realize was being hindered a little more each day they remained in the small town of Eastgate.

The time he had allotted for Adam's body to mend hadn't served any of his sons well. Struggling with his own guilt and regret, Hoss had slowly become nearly as protective of Adam as Ben was. He spent more time at Adam's side than he did away from him, watching his older brother and waiting to provide even the slightest of assistance.

Little Joe, however, seemed determined to spend as much time as he could as far away from Adam as he could get. Much to Ben's aggravation, he had taken to warming a barstool with his behind in the saloon. Ben had tried to put to end to it early on, his fierce instruction was quickly ignored, surpassed by Joe's inability to tolerate their current reality. It was behavior that had been allowed to continue for the sole reason that Ben couldn't be in two places at the same time. Hoss did his best to collect his little brother when he strayed to the saloon but, with so much attention focused on Adam, it was difficult to always do.

And then there was Adam.

Quiet, stoic, equanimous Adam. Except for he was no longer any of these things—at least not at the moment. He still was quiet, alright; he wasn't inclined to say much of anything. His tears had finally settled but his eyes had remained haunted, his body language heart-wrenchingly uncertain of everything around him. He didn't cope with strangers well—another reason for Hoss's extended attendance at his bedside.

Hoss had a way with Adam, he always had; he didn't have to say anything, his lingering presence was enough for Adam to appear ataractic, comforted by having his younger—and physically larger—brother serve as his bodyguard. They didn't talk, not that Adam seemed up to such a thing. Ben was reminded of how the two men had been as young boys, abiding tumultuous times by taking comfort in each other's steadfast companionship. Ben kept hoping Joe would join them, take up residence on the other side of Adam's bed, and allow his guilt and pain eased by the comfort of proximity rather than alcohol.

It wasn't to be, and besides the setting in the boarding house wasn't nearly as idyllic as Ben would have liked to believe it was.

Even with Hoss, Adam couldn't seem to contend with his apprehension where strangers were concerned. The doctor's initial visit had been the first testimony of Adam's excessive discomfort; the doctor's second and third visits had begun to suggest that the bothersome behavior was a change in disposition.

Adam's suspicion was palpable; he didn't trust anyone he didn't recognize, and he certainly didn't want them examining his body or behavior, giving him advice or following their instruction—even if the doctor was a qualified man acting in his ultimate best interest. Enforcing the doctor's orders had fallen to Ben, not that that was a problem, because the only thing that rivaled Adam's distrust of strangers was his trust in and obedience of his father instructions. Though, much to Ben's slight annoyance and relief, there was limit to his requests too. He had yet to succeed in coaxing Adam out of the boarding room. Although, Ben had to admit that his son's hesitance may have been due to a different complication rather than any actual apprehension.

With the exception of his boots, the clothes Adam had been wearing when he was found were too dirty and disfigured to be salvaged. Torn and stained with his brother's blood, Hoss hadn't wanted to salvage them; he had ensured they were destroyed instead.

Leaving his eldest in the company of Hoss, Ben set about getting Adam some proper clothes. His walk to the Eastgate General Store, took him toward the gallows and led him to cross the sheriff's path.

"How's your boy?" the sheriff asked as he smoothed his palm over one of the supportive beams of the gallows.

"Doing well," Ben said.

"Glad to hear it. I suppose the four of you'll be heading home soon."

"We're planning to leave in the morning."

"Good deal." The sheriff looked between the gallows and Ben. "Hanging's tonight," he said. "We're finally gonna put old Obadiah out of his misery." He tilted his head. "Man, I tell you I do not understand some people. Obadiah up and kills his business partner and his wife, I'm sure I don't have to explain to you the kinds of suspicions that would lead a man to do that kind of thing."

Shaking his head, Ben didn't need further explanation in order to conceive of the most likely scenario which had led to Johnson killing the pair.

"Anyway," the sheriff continued, "the circuit judge came through; we had the trial and Obadiah ended up lucky. That judge took pity on him and gave him five years."

Ben frowned. "Then why are you hanging him?"

"You know, I've been thinkin' the same thing," the sheriff mused. "It didn't have to be this way. Obadiah had a second chance to do right, but he decided to do wrong instead. We were holding him in the cell, waiting for the prison men to come collect him, and old Obadiah decided he need to kill someone else. I had two deputies and now I have one; the only thing Obadiah had to say for himself was that the judge got it wrong during his trial. He said he was a guilty man before he killed my deputy; he said couldn't live known what he'd done to his friend and his wife." He shook his head sadly. "A guilty conscience can sure make a man do asinine things."

Ben's lips formed a disapproving line.

"Glad to hear your boy's doing better," the sheriff continued. "Best thing you can do for him is get him home and put him back to work. It doesn't seem like a man has as many things to torture himself about when he's busy."

"Why would my son be tortured?"

The sheriff shook his head, his indifferent expression unchanging. "Mister Cartwright, if you think your boy is the first one who ever stumbled out that wilderness with a crazy look in his eye and hatred for a man called Peter Kane, then you'd be dead wrong. He ain't the first. He's just the first one who decided to hold Kane accountable in a permanent way."

"I thought that was what the law was for. I thought the doctor said my son didn't kill Kane."

"I'm glad to see him finally dead either way. Devil of man that Kane. You know what they say about the devil, don't you? He only takes pleasure in pain."

Ben didn't like the implications of the sheriff's words. What he was supposing about Adam or suggesting about Kane. "My son didn't kill that man," he said firmly.

"Doesn't matter either way, and either way I'm glad Kane's dead. I wouldn't let it worry you too much. Like I told you before, in the eyes of the law your son didn't do anything wrong. He's an innocent man, caught in the crossfire of a man whose evil knew no bounds."

"Why didn't you do anything?" Ben accused.

"'Bout what?"

"If you knew Kane was trouble, if you knew he hurt others and that he had a history of wrongdoing, then why on earth didn't you stop him before? What about your responsibility as the sheriff of this town?"

"Well the thing about that is, Kane was awful good at setting people up, worming his words into their minds and somehow getting them to do things they swore they'd never do. He never did anything wrong outright; he just set others up to. That's what made him dangerous. He was a damn devil of a man, sitting on peoples' shoulder and whispering things to them the way that he did. But as far as I know, talk ain't illegal. I could never arrest Kane because there was nothin' to really convict him of. There's just some types of men that are so crafty with their evildoing that they become ungovernable by law. You have to let them find their own demise."

"And that's what you think finally happened with my son?" Ben seethed. "You think Adam became Kane's demise."

"Like I said, the man was dangerous. I glad he's finally dead. Your son did what he had to do to protect himself. I did what I had to do to protect the people of this town. I banished Kane to the desert like the original Cain. You can't always punish evil, sometimes you just got to wait for it to find its own end."

Though it was more information than he thought he would ever glean about the man named Peter Kane, it was an explanation that didn't sit well with Ben. The sheriff may have protected his townsfolk but he had failed to protect or warn the people who came upon Kane outside of it.

And this new knowledge coupled with the lack of details surrounding Adam's time with Kane weighed on Ben's heart and mind for the remainder of the afternoon.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

That evening Obadiah Johnson was hung in front of the crowd of townsfolk who had congregated to watch.

In the boarding house room that Joe and Hoss shared, Ben watched his two youngest sons play cards and wondered about people who viewed death as a form of entertainment. It was a train of thought that was welcome at this point, serving as momentary respite from what had been a taxing day. His nerves frayed by his conversation with the sheriff, Ben had returned to the boarding house with clothes for Adam only to discover his eldest son sleeping and his youngest absent once again.

Traveling swiftly to the saloon, Ben had unleashed his fury upon his youngest son, the sheer power of which had shocked them both. He hadn't yelled or made a scene, but his voice, low and dangerous, and his hand clenching Joe's arm as he pulled him out of his chair, we're both crystal clear warnings of what was to come if Joe didn't finally adhere to his instruction. Wisely, Joe complied and allowed his father to shepherd him back to the boarding house.

Upon retrieving his wayward youngest child, Ben had summoned Hoss from Adam's room, then deemed a few extra minutes of careful observation necessary in order to ensure Joe remained in place. He refused to tolerate his son drinking away their last night in the town; it wouldn't make for a pleasurable or productive morning. He was already anticipating Adam having some difficulty on the trail, he refused to allow his youngest child to engage in behavior that promised a morning—and day—full of self-imposed difficulty.

When Ben finally heard the floor of the gallows drop, he decided it was time to return to Adam.

Entrusting Hoss to keep track of Joe, he finally left his two younger sons to their own devices.

Opening the door to the room he shared with Adam, Ben set his eyes on an unsettling scene. No longer sleeping, Adam had gotten out of bed. Standing on shaking knees, he knelt before the window, each side of the curtains clutched in-between tight fists. Though he couldn't see his son's face from behind, Ben could hear Adam's breaths, thick, ragged and panicked. Approaching him quickly, he cursed himself for daring to leave Adam alone. Of course, he was going to wake up. With all the ruckus in thoroughfare, how could he not?

"Adam?" Placing his hands over his son's, he struggled to dislodge Adam's grip on the curtains.

Adam held strong, his knuckles slowly turning white.

"Adam," Ben said again, his voice a little firmer. "Come on, son. Let go. There's isn't anything outside that you haven't seen before or need to see again."

"That's going to be me out there," Adam whispered breathlessly as he watched Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth.

"What?"

Hands falling to his sides, Ben was taken aback.

_Devil of man that Kane,_ the sheriff's words echoed tortuously in Ben's ears. _If your son really did kill him, then he probably deserved it. _

"That's going to be me," Adam repeated. "Oh, God, Pa!" Letting go of the curtains, he sunk to the floor, his body trembling as he began to weep. It was different kind of crying than what he had done since being found. Born less from confusion and panic and more from heart-wrenching sadness. It was nearly hysterical, nonetheless. "I-it's gonnna b-be _me_."

There it finally was, Ben thought, the reason for Adam's irregular behavior and savage nightmares.

Could it really be that simple? Could this really be the sole reason for Adam's anguish and distress. No. Because with Adam nothing was that easy. The pain he allowed others to perceive was usually just the smallest glimpse of something of mammoth proportions.

"That's not true," Ben countered, his voice softening as he knelt and pulled his son into his arms. "It could never be true."

"You don't know what happened out there, Pa. The things I let him do, or the things he e-expects from me now." Pressing the side of his head on Ben's shoulder, Adam clung to his father. "You don't know… You _don't_ know... You _don't know_... _You don't know_!"

Adam's cries where frenzied and desperate; Ben hesitated in properly broaching the topic of the things Adam thought he didn't know about while his son was so upset. It was better to wait. Let Adam cry himself out and then have a calm reasonable conversation later.

_Kane was awful good at setting people up, worming his words into their minds and somehow getting them to do things they swore they'd never do_, the sheriff's words circled Ben's mind, leaving him agonizing over all the possible things Kane could have implored Adam to do.

"Adam, do you want to tell me what happened?"

The gentle question left Ben's mouth despite his intentions otherwise. He was so eager to soothe his son's internal torment—and his own—that he briefly dismissed the doctor's foolhardy advice.

"You can tell me anything," Ben said gently as Adam continued to sob. "You know that. I'm certain whatever happened it isn't worth all this. Obadiah Johnson was a murder, son. You're not. I have known and loved you since before you were born. I know who you are, what you're made out of and capable of, so you believe me when I tell you that there is nothing you could possibly do that would warrant being hung."

Adam's only response was to sob harder. And so, Ben held him close. In the moment, there was little else he could do. Still, he was silently haunted by the allegations about Kane by both the doctor and the sheriff and his son's own self-condemning pronouncement.

_Your son did what he had to do to protect himself,_ the memory of the sheriff's words whispered. _Doesn't matter either way, and either way I'm glad Kane's dead._

"You didn't kill that man, Adam," Ben said, hoping the knowledge would soothe some pain. Sheriff's placid suspicions be damned; his son was no murderer, regardless of circumstance. "I don't know what happened out there between you and him, but I do know that he died and I know you didn't kill him."

Adam made no indication that the words had been heard or believed. Eventually, when his violent sobs ebbed into sniffles and sporadically hitched breaths, he allowed his father to help him off the floor and tuck him back into bed.

Coaxing him into drinking another glass of water mixed with sleeping power, Ben remained at Adam's bedside, carefully watching over him while what was left of his difficult emotions were soothed away by the tranquilizing liquid.

"Can you hold on to me, Pa?" Adam asked, his eyelids drooping, his words slightly slurred. The effects of powder were starting to overtake him, leaving him calm and close to falling asleep.

The question made Ben uneasy; it was a little too similar to the question Adam asked him in his dreams.

"Of course," he said.

Extending his hand, he rested his open palm on Adam's chest. It was the same thing he had always done when such a request was made by his eldest son, when his hand, weighted and strong, was required to root Adam in place and appease arduous sentiments. It was a predictable response to a request for physical contact that wasn't made often. Adam wasn't Joe; he didn't seek physical reassurances when he was upset or ill, except for exceptionally dire situations—situations such as this. He was unsurprised when Adam covered his hand with his own and held tight. Adam's grip was weaker than it should have been, combined aftereffects of the medicine and his lingering exhaustion, no doubt.

"That's not what I meant," Adam whispered. "But I'll take it just the same."

"What did you mean?"

"Can you hold on to me?" Adam asked tiredly as though repeating the question would suddenly allow it to make more sense than it did.

"Son, I already am."

Adam's frown was a clear indication that his request still hadn't been understood. Too drowsy to repeat or explain it, his eyes closed and his grip on Ben's hand relaxed as he gave into the pull of unconsciousness.

Xx

On their last night in Eastgate, Adam slept peacefully, it was Ben's slumber that had once again become interrupted by bad dreams.

Standing on the cliff, he set his gaze upon Adam and Peter Kane who both stood too close to the edge. Adam was in front of Kane, his face solemn and his attention fixed on the ground below.

_"__Adam,"_ Ben tried, watching in horror as Kane pushed his son closer and closer toward the crumbling edge of the cliff._ "Son."_

_"__Do you really think you can save him?"_ Kane sneered.

He didn't sound the way Ben had expected him to, or like anyone else he had ever heard before. His voice was deep and gravely, his tone downright jubilant and gleeful. Glistening with something akin to pure evil, the irises of Kane's eyes were an unsettling hue. Ben could have sworn the man's eyes were blue upon first look but seconds later they looked dark, blackened with the slightest hint of bright red.

Kane was an unsettling sight; chill crawling up his spine and stomach turning with a sudden sickness, Ben forced himself to break eye contact. He didn't like the way the man was looking at him or his son; he couldn't tolerate the trepidation born from being the extended focus the man's lingering gaze. He shouldn't have been afraid of Kane, but somehow, he was.

It was a fear that didn't bode well with him; he had thought there were so few things left in life that could truly frighten him. This man, with his glowing eyes and buoyant smile, scared him more than he wanted to admit.

What was Kane doing? What did he want with Adam? What was he trying to prove?

Taking a step forward, Ben extended his hand. _"Adam,"_ he said insistently. He needed to get his son as far away from Kane as he possibly could. _"Please, son."_

Eyes downcast, Adam remained silent. He gave no indication he heard his father or knew he was there.

_"__Can you save him?"_ Kane taunted. He pushed Adam again, then again and again, inching him further away from his father and closer to the edge. _"If he jumps, can you catch him? Can you make it in time? I bet you can't." _

_"__You leave my son alone!"_

Kane appraised Ben in a pleased manner as he looked him up and down. _"It's a little late to be making demands, don't you think? I am dead, after all. You can't exactly go making demands of a dead man."_

_"__Get away from him!"_

_"__It's a little late for that too. I wonder what else it's too late for? You never answered my question. Do you think you can catch him?"_ Kane looked between the edge of the cliff and Ben. _"How about we find out?"_

Frozen in place, Ben watched in horror as Kane took a step forward and shoved Adam's back with both of his hands.

_"__No!"_ Ben screamed as his son was propelled off the cliff. _"Adam!"_

Leaping to the edge, he scanned the air and ground below for his son, first in horror, then confusion as he remained unable to locate Adam's body. The air and the ground were empty; seemingly disappearing, Adam had vanished as though he had never been there at all.

_"__What happened to him?"_ Ben asked looking between Kane and ground. _"What did you do to him?" _

Kane laughed in return.

_"__Tell me what you did!"_ Ben bellowed.

_"__I can't,"_ Kane chuckled. _"I'm dead, remember? Dead men don't talk, at least not in normal ways. That, Mister Cartwright, puts you at the mercy of your son. I wonder what kind of story he's going to tell. Is your son a moral man? I mean, really deep down. Is he willing to take responsibility for what he's done or is he going to try to hide it? Is he going to favor truth over lies and own up to what's really going on?" _

_"__My son didn't kill you!"_

_"__How can you possibly know that? You weren't there." _

_"__Because I know my son!" _

Ben was furious; hands clenched into fists at his sides, he advanced on Kane quickly, intent on silencing his torturous words. He was stopped suddenly when Kane grasped his upper-arms and held him in place. He was shocked by the man's strength, taken aback by the unsettling dread growing in the pit of his stomach.

_"__Now I know where your son inherited his temper,"_ Kane said gleefully, holding Ben's arms painfully tight. _"Do you think he was right about me?"_

_"__Who?" _

_"__The sheriff."_ Kane shrugged. _"Or the doctor, doesn't matter which, I suppose. They both seemed to know things about me that you didn't. I wonder what your son knows about me that you don't."_

_"__Let me go!"_

_"__That's funny. That's the same thing your son said when I tied him down. But back to question at hand, do you think the sheriff was right about me being a devil? What are you going to do if he is?"_

Shaken by the question, Ben found himself without words.

_"__How do you save your son from the devil, Mister Cartwright?" _Kane asked. _"Do you really think you can protect him from himself?" _

Ben didn't know. The situation was new territory. He had never encountered such a mysterious dire state of affairs—at least not with regards to any of his sons. And Adam had never needed much in the way of saving. If it were Joe, it would be different. The boy would cry himself out and admit everything, then accept his father's soothing words and follow his advice word for word. Adam, however, Ben was agonizingly certain, would not do that. He would suffer in silence, fervently holding on to whatever it was he thought he knew.

_"__I didn't have to push him off that cliff, you know,"_ Kane continued. _"With or without me, he would have jumped eventually. You knew that because you were dreaming of this long before your boy ever met me. Now you tell me, what's the point of being gifted dreams if you aren't going to heed their warnings? What is the point of knowing something bad is on the horizon if you don't do anything to stop it?"_

_"__I tried to keep him home. I tried to protect him." _

_"__Not nearly hard enough. Awfully manipulative, that son of yours. He played you right into his hand, Papa." _

_"__Don't you dare speak ill of my son!" _

_"__He did that when he wanted to see the windmills too, remember?" _Kane grinned_. "Oh, you remember the windmills. How could you ever forget? Of course, he didn't call you Papa then because he didn't need to. His childish tantrum was enough, just like he knew it would be. That's thing about your son, he's always been intuitive and smart; he figured out your weakness and he uses it to manipulate you." _

_"__That's not true. Adam would never—"_

_"__He does," _Kane laughed_. "He's such a capable man, strong, self-sufficient, and independent. He doesn't need you for much. In fact, he doesn't really need you for anything at all. That's why his specific type of manipulation works. It works because it's inane and juvenile. If your youngest son tried to pull the same behavior to get his way, you wouldn't tolerate it. You tolerate, no you indulge, the behavior when your oldest son demonstrates it because it makes you feel needed. It makes you feel less obsolete in his life." _

_"__That's a lie!"_

_"__That's the truth. Do you think your son cared about what you instructed him to do the second after you agreed to let him go? He couldn't have cared that much because once in Eastgate, he disrespected your direction and he implored your younger son to disrespect it too."_

_"__My sons are men," _Ben said_. "They make their own choices. I harbor no anger against them for what they chose to do."_

_"__Oh, but you wanted to, didn't you? Admit it. If Adam wouldn't have gotten hurt, if he hadn't run into me and they had come home, safe and sound and all on their own, your fury would have been waiting for them. Where was that fury when your son was manipulating you? You were gifted the dreams of Adam and the cliff. They were sent to you so you could acknowledge and heed them, and you ignored them instead. What happened to your son was just as much your fault as his."_

_"__My son—"_

_"__Can make his own choices,"_ Kane said. _"Yeah, that's what you said, and in the desert, that's exactly what he did. Does it frighten you not to know what I did your son to transform him into the mess of a man that you found? Does it worry you to know that happened between him and I is something he doesn't want to share with you? You know why, don't you? He doesn't want to fail you. He doesn't want you know the truth."_

_"__My son didn't kill you."_

_"__Then why does he think needs to be hung? If he didn't kill me then what could have happened to make him feel as though he would rather die than live?"_

Ben woke with a gasp; sitting up quickly, he blinked his eyes blearily against the darkness of the quiet room. It took a few moments for the unsettling images of the dream to fade; the sight of Adam, safe and sound, sleeping peacefully on the bed on the other side of the small room, helped ease some of the lingering alarm he felt.

He felt like such a weary fool, gullible and old. He had allowed his conversation with the sheriff to weigh too heavily on his heart, leaving him so tortured that his subconscious mind had concocted an image of Kane to haunt him in his dreams. It was what the man was rumored to do, wasn't it? Act as a devil on a man's shoulder and whisper terrible things?

In the case of his dream, it seemed that his version of Kane was intent on drawing attention to what one could perceive as Ben's faults as a father and the vast differences in behavior he tolerated from each of his sons. There were differences because his son were different people with different personalities, strengths and weaknesses—he didn't need a dream to tell him that, just as he didn't need an illusory version of Kane to remind him of his guilt or his worry for his eldest son.

Although Adam had emerged from his confusion, there were still so many questions remaining about what he had endured in the desert and no satisfactory answers to be gleaned. Only two people knew for certain what had happened; Peter Kane was dead and Adam wasn't talking—at least in not any satisfactory ways. His nervous behavior and subsequent declarations begged more questions than it provided answers.

What had Adam really meant when he declared that he should be hung? What on earth had happened in the desert that was too terrible to speak about? What had Kane done to Adam? And what had Adam done to Kane?

Unsettled by these questions and the strangeness of his dream, Ben was too preoccupied to give sleep further thought.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Pa noticed the symbols right away.**

Sitting at the head of the table, he grasped Adam's wrist and pulled his son's hand closer for inspection. Staring at the dried ink, he opened his mouth, his forehead wrinkling with deep lines of worry, then he closed it again. In preparing himself to speak he had decided upon not saying anything at all, it seemed.

Adam was relieved as Pa let go of his hand, his father's attention shifting to filling both their respective coffee cups. With Hoss and Joe leaving early that morning for the timber camp, Adam and Pa were left alone. A slightly tense silence settled around them, their rapport paralyzed by a rhetorical question Pa wouldn't dare voice.

Something had changed during the night, that much was obvious, the evidence of such an event declared by the writing on the backs of Adam's hands. The symbols had been placed in response to something. Adam was certain they both knew that, and he was certain this specific knowledge was keeping his father from probing. There was no point in declaring what they both knew. Something had changed in the night, and something had changed the day prior too.

Pa had said Adam could leave the immediate ranch property alone. It was logical and understandable this new development would invite anxiety and fear—not only for Pa but for Adam as well. Both could be afraid Adam was not ready to cope with the responsibility of being alone and anxious about any number of bad decisions he could make. Adam knew it was plausible for Pa to think these were the feelings that had led to the symbols painted on the backs of his hands. Maybe so intimidated by the future he had needed something comforting to ground him in the present. This assumption wasn't completely ill-founded; Adam only wished it had been the true motivation prompting the painted protections. He hoped and prayed the symbols would be enough to contend with what was really going on.

And what was _really_ going on?

Adam wasn't completely certain. He didn't know what could possibly be gained by overpowering his body and mind, stripping him of his clothes and setting him on a wandering path. But he knew what could be lost. There was a time when events such as these had ignited Pa's worry and systematically stripped Adam of his father's trust. There was a time when Adam believed he knew who was commanding his insentient actions, but now he wasn't so sure.

At the beginning, he had believed it was Ross who was making him do such things; then, after the day he had gone to the timber camp in Hoss's company only to disappear and be found at the lake, he had believed it was Kane. With Ross's ghost gone and Kane absent neither seemed like feasible culprits for last night's excursion. He thought of Del, maybe she had been the one to place him naked and wandering in the woods, but that didn't seem likely either. She was decidedly bound to the confines of the house; she couldn't enter his bedroom. He had seen something in his room, a familiar shadowy figure he had seen before; he had always thought it was someone—or something—he knew. He had never believed it could be something he didn't.

Turning his head, Adam gazed upon the room, carefully looking first at the dining area, then the living space, and then he settled his attention on the far back wall. One side of it contained the staircase and the other led into the area containing his father's desk. Though he couldn't see the piece of furniture from his vantage point, he imaged what was laying on top of it. Documents and papers and an open ledger. What kind of work awaited he and his father today? What kind of evil was lurking in dark crevices awaiting an opportune moment to emerge? Who or what was the shadow that had overcome him the night before? Why was it there? What did it want?

Emerging unprovoked, these weren't questions he wanted to answer or entertain, so he turned his attention elsewhere, focusing instead on the fireplace and the emptiness of the space between it and the settee. Del was nowhere to be seen. Her absence was curious, especially given what happened in the night, and for the first time he began to wonder if he was truly aware of everything she was capable of. Was he certain she wasn't the shadow? Could he be certain of such a thing?

"Son?" Pa asked. "Is something bothering you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Looking at Pa, Adam noted he had become the focus of an evaluative gaze. "I'm sure," he said, hoping his voice sounded more certain than he felt. "I'd like to work outside today. I'll take the barn chores and whatever else needs to be done, and then later, if it's alright with you, I think I'd like to take a ride this afternoon."

"By yourself?" It was more of a statement than a question, the tightness of Pa's tone mirroring that of his face.

Seeing Pa's palpable discomfort intensified Adam's own. Did he really want to venture out alone? He wasn't sure. Where would he go? What would he do? What if he was_ made_ to do something? What if the shadow came back? Maybe it was safer to stay closer to home, close to Pa and Hop Sing. He didn't want to think about the shadow; he didn't want to remain in a place where Del could so suddenly appear.

Adam nodded despite his reservations.

"Oh, Adam, I don't think today is the right—"

"You said I could. You said I was ready."

"I didn't say you were ready," Pa corrected. "I said the time had come."

It was an interesting distinction, leading Adam to believe Pa wasn't as comfortable with things as he seemed. "You're not ready," he accused.

"No," Pa sighed. "I am not."

"Does that mean you're going to take back what you said?"

Placing his fork next to his plate, Pa reached for his coffee cup and took a series of sips. "No," he said eventually. Elbows propped on tabletop, he held his cup in both of his hands; its rim hovered inches from his lips. "I may not be comfortable with it, but you can go. I am a man of my word, and I raised you to be too. Therefore, I want you to promise you aren't going to get into any trouble. I want you to promise that you are going to go exactly where you tell me you're going and then you're going to return exactly when you tell me you will. You will go on an outing to get your _fresh air _and then you will come back."

"Of course."

"That isn't good enough, son. I want your word. I want you to promise."

"I promise."

"You promise what?" Pa pressed.

"I promise I won't get into trouble."

"And?"

Adam inhaled a deep-chested breath, visibly annoyed by the expectation he recite the given instructions like a chronically disobedient child.

"And?" Pa prompted firmly.

"I promise I will go where I say I'm going," Adam said quietly. "I will come back when I say I'm going to. I will go and get some fresh air and then I'll come home."

Pa nodded, seemingly satisfied with the extended response.

They finished their breakfast in silence.

"So," Pa eventually said, "where_ are_ you going?"

Adam shook his head. He couldn't share what he didn't yet know.

Xx

He told Pa he was headed to Lake Tahoe.

This was a plan he was immediately required to change; if the horrified look upon Pa's face wasn't reason enough to rethink his destination, then the firm "no" that escaped his father's lips was. So, Adam thought on it a moment and eventually came up with a slightly less intimating option.

A particularly still and shallow shore of the Truckee River was where he would go, to get his fresh air and listen to comforting sound of the water trickling passed; he might even fish. It sounded damn near idyllic as he said it aloud. It took a minute or two, but, eventually, after giving it copious silent consideration, Pa fell for his adjusted itinerary—hook, line, and sinker.

Adam didn't go the river.

Though if it had been a deliberate lie or a decision that came after he finally disappeared from his father's nervous gaze, he wasn't sure. Surely, he hadn't _intended_ to mislead his father. Given Pa's worry that would have been a terrible thing to do. And Pa was so incredibly worried. Lingering a little too closely as Adam saddled Sport, he hadn't uttered so much as a word until his son led the horse from the barn and prepared to mount.

"Promise me," Pa said as he grasped Adam by the arm and held him in place, both his son's feet still firmly planted on the ground. "_Promise me_ you will be safe."

The words were achingly familiar, the tension on his father's face mirroring the unease he had displayed so long ago; both were identical to a moment long past when Adam and Joe were preparing to drive a herd to Eastgate. Pa had seemed to know something back then. He had looked upon Adam as though he knew his instructions to return home quickly would be ignored. Adam wondered if this moment was destined to become like the one before. If it, too, would eventually be looked upon with stinging pain and deep regret.

"I promise," he said.

It was vow he had meant to keep. Even if his path had changed and he detoured to a place he knew Pa would never allow him to go, he was careful. He stayed aware of his surroundings and minded his horse's pace. He did everything he could to ensure his journey was safe.

Eventually, he found himself standing in front of the iron gates of the cemetery just outside the outskirts of Virginia City. It was a foolish decision, impetuous and unwise;

the likelihood he could visit the grounds without being seen was slim, the resulting complications of being seen seemed painfully predictable. Word of a rare sighting of eldest Cartwright son would only lend to the rumors floating throughout the town; Pa would be furious with the townsfolk—with Adam himself. It was an intimidating notion; however, it was not enough to make Adam turn around and go back the way he came.

He wasn't sure why had come to the cemetery; even so he wouldn't leave without giving the moment what it seemed to be demanding. He could feel it in the coolness of the air, in the hardness of the ground beneath his boots; he hadn't wanted to come here, not really. He had come because it was required. It was something he had to do.

He stepped through the entrance of the slim, iron fencing, the lines of plots beckoning, seemingly inviting him to look upon them until he found what he sought.

Like the town to which it belonged, the graveyard was not large. It served as a final resting place for fewer folks than one would think, predominantly townsfolk who had passed at varying ages, scattered drifters and ranch-hands who had no families to claim them. Ross and Delphine were both buried in it as were the rest of the Marquette family, a decision which had perplexed Adam as a youth.

The Marquette's had owned land; it made more sense for those who had borne their last name to rest upon it. Still, both Ross's parents and his brothers had been buried in the cemetery, Ross's mother, the matriarch of the family, still clinging to the decidedly Eastern belief that the deceased belonged among others, all gathered together in one final place. It was an expectation that hadn't made sense to Adam when he was an adolescent, but he understood it now. His own time back East, the hours he had spent in the stately graveyard where Elizabeth rested had silenced any judgment or doubt.

Virginia City's graveyard was pitiful in comparison to that one. The graves and their modest markers more reminiscent of Inger's nominal, unmarked prairie plot than his birth mother's grandiose one. Able Stoddard may not have had land at the time of his daughter's death, but he had had money, and so had the Marquette's. Or at least they had when Ross's parents and brothers had died.

When it came time to bury Ross and Delphine it was discovered the estate was not nearly as liquid as originally thought. Ross had had trouble with his herd dying out a year or so before—everyone knew that; what they didn't know is that it was a loss the Silver Dollar never recovered from. To most it made sense in hindsight; financial hardship was Ross's reason for robbing the stage. It was the reason for all the mistakes he had made toward the end of his life. But to Adam the explanation wasn't enough, because the reasoning was hopelessly flawed. It wasn't a need for money that had led Ross to do what he had done. It was something else.

Shaking his head, Adam expelled a hearty sigh. He didn't want to think any of _that_; he had left home to clear his mind and his thoughts, not convolute them. He hadn't entered the graveyard with the intention of laying eyes upon where Ross or Del's respective bodies lay. He didn't want to talk to them; their ghosts had both spoken quite enough.

The lofty headstones marking the members of the Marquette family made their plots easy to identify and avoid. To an outsider the older headstones served as declaration of the family's wealth; to the people who knew the details surrounding their deaths Ross and Delphine's matching markers were a testament to Ben Cartwright's humanity and kindness. It was he who had discreetly commissioned the town's stonemason to create headstones which would match the rest of the family. When they were finished and placed, it was he who had quietly paid the bill. This was not something that was ever spoken about among the Cartwright family, rather just silently understood.

Adam's eyes scanned his surroundings, searching for something he was both dreading and eager to find. It didn't take long for his eyes to settle upon the furthest back corner of the graveyard, the meager wooden marker seemingly calling out, inviting him to approach. He did so slowly, carefully, his heartbeat quickening with each step.

It seemed like an eternity had past before he finally crouched in front of the cross. It was dirty, covered in residual dust from once packed dirt that had been blown up by wind. Rain had turned the dust into mud which had dried and now clung relentlessly, disguising the name carved in the wood. He cleaned it the best he could, the scratching of his fingertips finally unearthing the name of the man buried beneath.

The state of Frank Mitchel's grave-marker was a testament to the townsfolk interest, or lack thereof. They cared more about the gossip of how the man had died than the fact that he ever lived. No one cared about what Frank had done or that he was gone. No one except Adam.

There were so many things he wanted to say to this man in the ground and absolutely nothing that seemed sufficient; there was nothing that could give proper weight to the gravity of the loss—the loss of Frank's life and the losses Adam's behavior had facilitated.

They had had such a tumultuous beginning, he and Frank. First, they had been strangers, then enemies, and then, somehow, they had ended up something else. It was all so odd to think about now, how they begun and how they had ended and everything that happened in-between.

"I'm sorry," Adam whispered mournfully, the word escaping without thought. The apology unearthed a memory, the words never given but once so angrily sought.

_"__You ain't sorry!" _Frank had once said, an accusation yelled early on. They were enemies then, both of them trying so hard to stifle their pain in the bottom of a bottle._ "You killed that boy, your supposed best friend. You followed Ross Marquette up onto those cliffs without any intention of hearing him out. He was unwell, sick in the head, and you killed him for it!"_

The words added to Adam's guilt so intensely at the time that the only feasible retort seemed to be connecting his fist with the older man's face. It was an action that led to a fight, shattered glasses and liquor bottles, broken bar tables and chairs, and neighboring twin cells in the Carson City jail. Despite their proximity, they didn't speak again. Adam didn't talk to Frank for a long time after that. And when he finally did, their next interaction was in yet another bar; though his words were vastly different, the emotions influencing them were the same as what had begun their fight.

_"__I want you to come work for me," _Adam had said. It was a kind offer on the surface, an extension of the proverbial olive branch, but beneath the surface it hadn't been that. It had been malicious and calculated, his intentions for Frank Mitchel terrible from the start. Ross's ghost had long made its presence and demands known by then, energy of what would become Del was no more than a whisper in the darkness of the blackest nights. He had begun to hear her, but he couldn't see her. Not yet.

The way Mitchel had looked at him, silently mulling over the offer, was enough to make Adam wonder if Mitchel suspected something was awry.

_"__Nope," _Mitchel said eventually.

_"__Why not?" _

_"__I don't work for murderers that's why not."_

Adam snorted, shook his head and lowered his voice. "_You worked for Ross Marquette,"_ he whispered. He was slightly amazed at his ability to leverage such a painful detail with no emotion.

Mitchel wasn't so fortunate. "_That's different," _he growled.

_"__Why?" _

_"__Because that boy wasn't no murder, at least not the last spring when I was on his payroll."_

_"__People change."_

_"__Not like that they don't. A man is a murderer or he ain't. Ross did what he did because he was sick." _Mitchel cast Adam an accusing glare. "_What's your excuse?"_

Adam suppressed the urge to flinch, the question begging an answer he wouldn't dare say. _"Look,"_ he said firmly, _"I'm just trying to give you what want—what you think you deserve. Isn't that what you've been saying since you came back into town? That I cost you a job and now I owe you one."_

_"__And you would have me doin' what? Slinging shit left by the horses in a corral and barn? Cattle drivin' season has passed, kid. Drivin' is what I'm good at; it's what I do." _

_"__Well, I don't need you to drive cattle and I don't want you picking up after horses."_

_"__What then?"_

_"__Timber."_

_"__Timber?"_ Mitchel scoffed. _"I ain't never worked timber." _

_"__But you oversaw men." _

Mitchel was intrigued. _"What's men gotta do with trees?" _

_"__I have men that need to be directed and watched. Working with the trees is easy enough to pick up; it's the management skills that can't be taught. I need somebody who's tough and can stand up to the most belligerent of the crowd. Somebody who won't cave on an opinion he knows is right. I've fought you a time or two, so I know you can take a punch. And you've been spewing the same bull-shit story about Ross and me since you rolled back into Virginia City and discovered he was dead, so I know you hold strong to your convictions." _Adam shrugged_. "Call me crazy but I think you'd be a perfect fit for the job." _

_"__What about your daddy?"_

_"__What about him?" _

_"__I can't see him taking kindly to me working for ya'll considering the guff between us."_

_"__He doesn't have to know about any of that." _

Mitchel chuckled. _"You're kiddin' with the way he keeps you and your brothers underfoot they're ain't no keeping it from him."_

_"__Let me rephrase that, my father doesn't know, Frank, and he won't know. I'll make sure of it."_

_"__Like I said, he'll find out."_

_"__No, he won't." _

_"__Yeah, right. You're telling me that a man like Ben Cartwright doesn't have awareness of all of his business ventures." _Mitchel shook his head._ "Nope, a man that successful knows what's goin' on at each and every one of his camps. He knows who's on payroll, where they came from, what they're like." _He glanced at Adam._ "If somebody ever had personal issue with one of his boys."_

_"__He does," _Adam said. _"He knows all those things for every other venture, very other camp, except for this one. He doesn't have a hand in it." _

Mitchel wasn't convinced._ "Why the hell would that be?"_

_"__Because it isn't his. It's mine. It's always been mine." _

Mitchel laughed.

_"__I'm serious," _Adam said.

_"__You're lyin'." _

_"__I'm not."_

_"__A man like Ben Cartwright don't just hand off —"_

_"__Except for when he does," _Adam interrupted.

_"__Why would he do something like that?" _

_"__Because it's all he has to get what he wants in the end."_

Now Mitchel really was intrigued. He squared his jaw and stared at Adam, curiosity sparkling in eyes.

Adam wondered if this was part of the family story he wanted to tell and if Mitchel was the person he wanted to share it with.

_"__Which is what?" _Mitchel prompted._ "What did your daddy want that was worth giving up rights to that camp?" _

_"__Me," _Adam sighed._ "He wanted me." _

_"__That don't make sense."_

Adam knew it didn't, but it was just as well. It wasn't for anyone else to understand.

The time he spent away at college in the company of his well-traveled grandfather had done little to settle Adam's wandering spirit. It had left him yearning for new adventures, a deep desire to set his attention on new frontiers rather than old. He hadn't wanted to come home after graduation—at least not right away. He wanted a few more years away at the very least, the rest of his life at most to wander and explore the vastness of the world and find something he could call his own.

_This camp is something you can call your own_, his father had written to him. _I will not maintain authority over it, the men who work there, or your decisions._

Adam still recalled being taken aback by the words he was reading. It was as though Pa had reached into his mind, pulled them out, and wrote them on the page. How did his father know he was yearning for something of his own? How could he have been privy to such an intensely protected desire? He had never spoken this intention aloud. He had never the summoned the courage to write words documenting his inner conflict for Pa to read. Still, Pa had known. Somehow, he had just known.

And when he accepted the offer and returned home, Adam had done so half-hoping his father would know something else he remained determined to never say. The arrangement was temporary. He could put his dreams on hold for the immediate future, but he wouldn't remain in the Nevada Territory forever.

Adam wasn't built like Hoss or Little Joe; he couldn't remain in the same place for the duration of his life. The traveling he and his father had done in his early years had impacted him greatly, instilling within him a wandering spirit and a courageous heart. He wasn't content remaining in place. Eventually, he would leave his family; it simply wasn't conceivable he would remain on the Ponderosa, as sprawling and vast as it was. Maybe if he would have had more time after college to work through his adventurous desires then that could have been different. Perhaps, if he would have had the courage to decline his father's offer, or, better yet, if the offer had never been made then Adam would have worked through his wanderlust and returned home to stay.

Sometimes, in his most shameful of moments, full of frustration and anger over the tediousness of daily ranch life, Adam resented his father for presenting him with the timber camp and hated himself for not having the courage to reject it. He had known back then what was his father was doing and what the camp really was. It was a gift, a purposefully concocted ploy to exploit his most severe weakness. He wouldn't reject the offer once it was made—Pa had known that. Adam would never choose his own desires and dreams over those of his father. He had been taught to listen, value, respect, and follow his father's lead—Pa had known that too.

Back then, Adam had considered himself a man. Looking back, he saw so clearly how much of a boy he still had been. A man had the courage to disappoint his father. A man told the truth no matter how terrible it would make himself or others feel. That was a lesson he had been taught but struggled to practice at the time. Sometimes he wondered if he truly practiced it now.

_"__Listen," _Adam said, looking Mitchel in the eye, "_it doesn't have to make sense to you. Just trust me when I say the camp is mine. You work for me, not my father. I hire and fire who I want when I want. Men come and go and my father doesn't know who they are." _

Mitchel grunted.

_"__What do you say?" _Adam asked.

Mitchel took his time, pouring himself a drink while he thought on the offer. Adam knew it was a difficult one to decline; men like Frank Mitchel who had spent the majority of their lives on the backs of horses directing cattle from one place to another were never given opportunities like this. If their age didn't work against them, then their lack of experiences did. Timber was vastly different than cows—despite his claims otherwise—and experience wouldn't come easy—neither would the respect of the men already at the camp.

_"__Alright," _Mitchel said, the word no more than a sigh._ "This don't change anything between us, you know,"_ he added, his voice a little louder. _"I ain't ever gonna like you."_

_"__No,"_ Adam had said with a tilt of his head. _"I don't believe you ever will. You stand by your actions and words, even when they're things people don't want to see or hear. I respect that about you. Hold on to your suspicions, Frank. Stand firm in what you think and believe, in the end that's all a man really has."_

The decision was the beginning of something, a first step on a path which would eventually lead both men where they ended up. Adam and Frank Mitchel had begun as enemies, but as time passed, they had ended as something else.

"I keep looking for you," Adam admitted to grave. "Wondering, waiting for you suddenly appear to torture and follow me the way Ross used to. Some days I wish you would, then maybe I'd feel better about what happened between us. Although, I guess if you really wanted to make me suffer for what I did then I suppose not haunting me is probably the best way to go about doing that. This way I have to live with it. There's no processing it like there was with Ross. No going from grief to fear to anger and frustration over time. I was always afraid of him, that never changed but toward the end I got so overcome by frustration, I felt so... _pressured_ that... that I was willing to do anything to get him to go away. Nothing should have happened the way that it did; I should have been strong enough to face up to Ross's ghost and do what I knew was right instead of giving in."

He smoothed his fingertips over indents on the grave-marker and shook his head. Ghosts of the past had a way of demanding their due. Even if they never showed themselves, their memories lingered behind, imploring those who knew them best to feel certain kinds of ways. And what Adam felt now was shame, regret, and pain.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wish things could have been different than they were. I thought I was stronger than I was; I thought I was a different person than who I've turned out to be."

"It isn't good to speak to the dead as though they are still alive."

Adam's eyes widened, his face falling with shock. Still crouching, he turned swiftly and nearly lost his balance and landed on his behind. It was a blessing he didn't, because staring up at Minister Joe who stood paces behind him, he was certain he wouldn't have had the courage to pick himself up. He hadn't heard the man enter the cemetery. How could anyone's approach be so covert?

Minister Joe looked upon Adam without judgment, his voice soft and matter-of-fact as he continued. "I heard you were lost in the desert."

"That was a long time ago now."

"Was it? Are you so certain you are not still lost now?"

The question was as odd to Adam as the manner in which the Minister was looking at him; it was though he could see right through him, reaching into his head and his heart to become privy to his struggles and fear. Adam didn't how to reply, not that it would have mattered much, because Minister Joe didn't seem intent on gleaning answers.

"God cast Cain into the desert," Minister Joe continued. His voice was even and clear as if he was giving a Sunday morning sermon. "But first," he lifted his index finger and placed on the left side of his head, "he marked him with a scar. If I were to imagine it, I suppose it would it would look like your own. How did you happen upon that scar?"

"I fell," Adam said dumbly, needing so badly to respond, to hear his voice as verification he wasn't imagining the conversation or the man in front of him. "Or so I was told."

"Maybe it's a gift from God."

"God didn't give me this scar."

"Cain's scar was a promise of protection; it was a warning meant for others placed by God. Don't hurt this man, that marking declared, for if Cain is killed then I will avenge his death sevenfold. I wonder what yours declares."

"That I was clumsy on a staircase."

"Or so you were told." Minister Joe smiled, his expression softening. "I seem to remember you as man who was quite agile on his feet. You know, God protected Cain in spite of his sins. He will protect you too. There is a way out from your current circumstances if you look for it, but you will never find it if you allow yourself to ignore what has led you here in the first place." He nodded at Mitchel's grave, a knowing glint in his eyes. "It isn't wise to dwell on the past; however, it isn't good to ignore it either. Perhaps you should spend less time listening to the voices of the dead and more time focusing on the beauty of the life that still surrounds you, then maybe you will be able to hear him and he will instill within you courage and faith you need to continue your fight."

"And by _him_ you mean?"

"God, of course."

Adam's stomach turned. "Of course."

"It's something to think about at least." Minister Joe tilted his head toward the town in the distance. "I wouldn't linger here too long if I were you. There are folks in this town who would not leave you so peacefully, and others who desire to catch a glimpse of you for the sole purpose of embellishing their later gossip. You are still quite the popular topic, I'm afraid."

With that, Minister Joe nodded, turned, and left as quietly as he had come.

Watching him walk away, Adam was too overcome with shock to move or speak. Eventually, he summoned enough wherewithal to follow the minister's advice, and he endured the ride home, his mind suddenly burdened with questions and doubts.

Why did it seem as though Minister Joe knew much more about his struggles with evil than he alluded to? How could he possibly know anything at all?

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

In the coming weeks, Ben's dream changed.

Still standing immobile on the top of the cliff, his eyes aimlessly searching the desolate land below for something he was destined to never find. Since being pushed over the edge by Kane, Adam was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't appeared in any of his father's dreams since, but that didn't mean Ben was alone. He was never alone in his dreams.

Peter Kane always loomed, blocking the only access point to the safety of the landscape behind them. Sometimes he spoke, others he only stared, his lips curled into an evil smile, his eyes glowing as he watched and waited for Ben to utter an accusation or make a move. This time Ben remained determined to do neither as he stood rooted in place, his fists clenched at his sides as he silently willed himself to wake up.

_"__Now, why would you want to wake up?" _Kane asked. _"You dream of me for a reason, you know. You may not think that is true, but it is. Deep down, you want to speak with me; deep down, you want me to tell you all the things I know. You want to talk to me because your son won't talk to you._" He smiled, his eyes glistening with evil. _"At all." _

Ben was unsurprised by the statement; time had proven the Kane of his dreams was always privy to his thoughts. It was as infuriating as it was unsettling to have no secrets, no privacy from a man he despised so much.

_"__It's interesting, isn't it?" _Kane asked. _"How you allow yourself to hate someone you never met. How can you judge me so harshly, Mister Cartwright? You never spoke to me while I was alive; you didn't know what kind of man I really was. I could have been anyone, you know."_

Scowling, Ben didn't appreciate the accusation. He didn't need to know Kane in order to despise or curse the man's name. He may not have seen or spoken to him while he was alive, but he knew enough to loath him and be thankful for his death.

_"__How can you be so sure?" _Kane laughed. _"After all, you don't know the truth of what happened out there."_

Ben didn't need details to be certain of such a thing. The indisputable changes in his eldest son's temperament were enough for Ben to appreciate Kane's death. Praise be to God for taking the man while Adam was stumbling around in the desert. Glory be that Hoss or Joe or Ben himself hadn't been responsible for first saving then subsequently taking the man's life. One of them would have done something regrettable had Kane survived—Ben was certain of that now.

_"__It's interesting you would give thanks to God for anything," _Kane said. _"A man like you, with all the things you've been given and then had taken away."_

Kane words gave voice to a thought—Ben was ashamed to admit—that had occurred to him before.

He had lost a great deal over the course of his life, people, places and things he held near and dear to his heart. Some he had left behind by his own will and volition, others had been taken from him without warning. It was the loss of people that always seemed to hurt the most; enduring the pertinacious sting of continuing life without them was what generally led to such dissentious thoughts. Pain, physical or mental, had a way of strengthening a man's bond with God or breaking it. Ben had endured events which had left him with experience of both outcomes. Still, with age had come wisdom, patience, strength and faith. He wasn't the godliest of men but he did his best and he had taught his sons to do their best too.

_"__In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," _Kane said. _"He created the darkness and the light; he created land, plants and animals, all living things. God created Adam. Cursed is the ground on which Adam walks because he sinned; he defied his father's instruction and he became knowing of good and evil…"_

Closing his eyes, Ben hung his head and groaned. He had heard this sermon too many times before. Kane took pleasure in likening Ben's son, Adam, to the first son of God. He enjoyed contrasting the mistakes of one Adam to another, torturing Ben with how parallel they could sometimes seem. And Kane took great satisfaction comparing his own life path to that of someone else.

_"__God created Cain," _Kane continued. "_Sin desired him and he was incapable of ruling over it. Sin is what led God to cast Cain out, making him a restless wanderer of the earth. Even so, God loved Cain and protected him; he marked him so that no one who found him in the desert would kill him, and anyone who dared would suffer vengeance seven times over. What happened in the desert, Mister Cartwright? Was God protecting me too? Is that why your son is destined to suffer so much now that I'm dead?" _

_"__My son didn't kill you," _Ben seethed. He refused to believe such a thing could be true. _"God didn't cast you into that desert, the sheriff did." _

_"__None of that changes the fact that your son did defy you. He went into desert outside of Eastgate when you told him to come home and he became knowing of good and evil." _

_"__I've told you before and I'll tell you again, my son is a grown man; he makes his own decisions, and besides that, Adam is thirty-four years old; I assure you, your evil wasn't the first he's ever encountered in his life."_

_"__Yes," _Kane agreed. _"But what made mine so much worse than anything he's come across before? What did he do to me? What did I do to him?" _He smiled broadly. _"Is it true?"_

_"__Is what true?"_

_"__What the people of Eastgate said about me. Was I a man? Was I a demon? Or was I a devil in disguise?" _

It was with this question echoing in his mind that Ben suddenly awoke.

It was early, judging by the steadily brightening sky. He slept less and less these days, it seemed, waking each dawn earlier than the one before. It was just as well; he didn't feel as though he needed more sleep than what he obtained, and having his dreams consistently infiltrated by Peter Kane was as good of reason as any not to extend his slumber for any longer than needed.

He dressed quickly, then quietly exited his bedroom. He made it a few paces down the hallway, his careful gaze evaluating the entries to his son's respective bedrooms, looking for anything worrisome or out of place. It was an old habit, unconscious yet unnecessary as all of his sons had reached adulthood. It had been years since either Hoss or Joe had required their father's attention in the early moments of dawn or in the middle of the night, to protect or soothe or reassure, and it had been even longer since Adam had needed such a thing. Of course, that had been before and this was now; before being a normal version of what Ben recognized as the life he had built and shared with his sons, and now being some alternate time period that they had been drawn into after finding Adam wandering the desert.

Finding the door to Adam's bedroom open, Ben couldn't stifle the sigh which escaped him; deep and defeated, the sheer strength of it was enough to make his shoulders slump. He didn't need to appraise the bedroom to know what he would find—or who he wouldn't find rather—because his eldest son's absences from bed had become habitual.

Adam had been aimlessly wandering the desert when they finally found him and though he was safe at home, nearly six weeks after the day he had been found, Ben's eldest son was still aimlessly wandering in so many ways.

Since returning home, Adam's behavior had become increasingly unsettling and strange. He seemed to long for some kind of physical verification of safeness, unconsciously standing or sitting with very little proximity between whoever he was next to. On the quiet evenings when the family congregated around the fireplace, Adam had abandoned his favored blue chair, choosing instead to sit on the settee; his vacant gaze focused on the flames of the fire, his arm extended absently to grasp Ben's forearm and hold it tightly. While maintaining contact, Adam seemed oddly unaware he had initiated or allowed such a thing; the moment he realized what he was doing, however, he would pull away immediately. Though Adam did similar things with Hoss, he never sought contact with Joe. Occasionally, Ben found himself wondering why such a thing would be, and others he avoided considering it at all, reminding himself that he should take solace in the fact that Hoss was such a comfort to Adam.

He should be grateful his eldest son, normally so stoic and restrained, hadn't chosen to isolate himself completely while he wrestled with his internal torment. It was hard to be appreciative of such a thing, because once so adaptable and autonomous, it was obvious Adam no longer liked being alone. There was something especially intolerable about solitary silence or darkness, it seemed. His days were spent in the company of at least one of his family members, and he had taken to sleeping with his bedroom illuminated with the soft glow of an oil lamp burning low.

The door to Hoss's bedroom was slightly ajar. Hesitating in front of it, Ben clutched the doorknob and paused, uncertain if he intended to peer inside or pull the door closed. In the end, he did neither. He didn't need to look inside to know what he would find; if the crack in the door wasn't evidence enough then Adam's open bedroom door was.

Still haunted by nightmares Adam often woke in the middle of the night; unable to return to sleep or bear being alone, he had taken to seeking respite in Hoss's room. It was an unsettling development; Ben didn't like it. Under normal circumstances, such a thing would have been immediately deemed indecorous. But these were not normal circumstances, a saddening fact that became more and more glaring with each sunrise and sunset as nothing about Adam seemed destined to become what his family would define as normal ever again.

Ben remained quiet about the sleeping arrangement. He didn't want to draw attention to it, transforming it into a larger problem than it already seemed. If Adam needed security, if proximity to Hoss was what allowed him get through the night, then Ben wouldn't put an end to it. After all, who was he to say one way or another? If Hoss was accepting of it, then who was he to put a stop to it?

Ben did want it to stop; his silence didn't automatically equate to acceptance. He would have preferred to have each of his sons in their respective beds. He would have preferred having never heard or dreamed of a man named Peter Kane. He would have preferred for Adam to suddenly return to the person he had once been. He would have much preferred to wake up from this extended nightmare that had become their life to find everything normal once more. With each passing day, it seemed like such a thing was less and less likely to ever be.

Adam wasn't talking about happened in the desert. In fact, these days, he wasn't talking about anything at all. He had ceased speaking completely. It had been a surreptitious decline, not immediately worrisome or notable because Adam hadn't been particularly garrulous since being found. It was Little Joe who had first brought attention to his eldest brother's prolonged silence, posing a question to Hoss one evening after Adam had retired upstairs to bed.

"When's the last time you heard Adam say anything?" he had asked. Dislodging his gaze from the grand fireplace, he looked at Hoss, his face settling into a worried expression.

"Dunno." Hoss shrugged. "Haven't really thought about it, I guess."

"You don't know?" Joe pressed.

"He's quiet these days," Hoss said. "That ain't new. Older Brother has always been more of the thoughtful type."

"There's thoughtful and then there's mute."

Chewing absently on the end of his pipe, Ben frowned. "Mute?"

"Yeah, mute," Joe said, looking at his father. "You know, Pa, I don't think I heard him say one word today, and that got me thinking about yesterday and the day before and I don't think he's said anything for at least the past three days."

"Three days?" Hoss asked, clearly not sharing his brother's worry. "Come on, Joe, don't be silly. If Adam had gone three days without talkin' one of us would have noticed."

"One of us _did _notice," Joe said. "That's what I'm telling you right now."

"Three days is a long time not to notice someone not speaking," Ben said. "You've been busy, Joe. With Adam doing less work away from the house and you doing more, you haven't spent a lot of time with him. Like Hoss said, he doesn't talk much. Maybe he has spoken; maybe you just haven't been around to hear him."

"I don't believe that," Joe refuted softly.

Silently, Ben wondered if he disbelieved the explanation too.

Though Joe had conceded the argument, it wasn't a complete loss, because after the conversation Ben had made a concerted effort to take note of how much Adam spoke. It didn't take long for him to discover that Joe had been right or for his eternal worry over Adam's wellbeing to proliferate.

It wasn't long after that when Doctor Paul Martin had come around. The people of Virginia City had heard about Adam's disappearance; his subsequent extended absence from town had given birth to rumors too numerous to count—some were outlandish and others carried a little more truth than Ben wanted to admit. At their core they could all be condensed to the same unavoidable theory: robbed and set astray in the desert outside of Eastgate, Adam had been lost for weeks before being found, and the Adam who had been pulled from the desert wasn't the same man who entered it. Something bad had happened—the complications and details of which were wildly exaggerated and passionately speculated about by the townsfolk. And so, one afternoon, seemingly prompted by exaggerated speculation, Doc Martin had come under the guise of a friendly visit.

"I know you didn't fetch me, but I heard what happened to Adam," he had said. "It's been a while since he's been around town. I won't lie to you, Ben, there's some nasty talk floating about. I thought a visit might be prudent, see if there's any truth to some of those claims."

Ben thought the only thing more prudent than an impromptu visit would have been for the doctor to not have come in the first place.

"I am by nature a curious man," Martin continued. "I assure you this visit was facilitated by genuine concern."

"Concern," Ben repeated sharply; he had doubts about such things where anyone outside of his immediate family was concerned.

"Concern." Martin punctuated the word with a nod. "Is Adam around?"

"He is."

"Will you allow me to speak with him?"

Appraising the doctor skeptically, Ben didn't immediately reply. "You can try," he finally agreed.

And Doc Martin did try to converse with Adam with no apparent success. Appearing in acceptable physical health, it was Adam's mind that seemed to be in poor condition—Ben hadn't needed the doctor to tell him that, though the man had anyway. The only helpful information Martin had offered after examining and observing Adam for just over an hour were his parting words.

"You're walking a very fine line where his behavior is concerned," Martin said. "What you allow will set a precedence and most likely continue. The more convenient you make it for him to act strangely, the less reason he has to correct his behavior."

Ben was appalled both by the advice and the Martin's clinical tone. "How dare you?" he growled. "I didn't ask you here. I didn't seek your advice about my son's behavior or health."

"Ben," Martin said calmly, "I meant no disrespect. You know I didn't. I'm merely offering my educated opinion—"

"Which I did not ask you for!"

"I came because I was concerned..."

"You came because you were curious!"

"...about the things I had heard. I was concerned before I came, Ben," Martin said evenly. "But I do feel obligated to tell you, I'm a bit beyond that now."

Ben snapped his mouth shut. What feeling proceeded concern? Unease? Alarm? Fear? Surely, he knew the answer though he found himself incapable of deciding upon it now.

"Are you worried?" Martin asked. Shaking his head, he didn't wait for a reply. "If you aren't then you should be. The changes in Adam are startling to say the least."

"I know," Ben quietly conceded. There was no point in denying what could be easily seen.

Adam was different. He had lost weight since the desert. While it wasn't a worrisome amount—at least not yet—the difference in his physique was obvious. His clothes, always dark and black, hung on him with a looseness they hadn't had before. He was uncharacteristically unconcerned with his appearance. He had stopped shaving and his hair was left uncut and uncombed; rising off his head in a thick, dark mass, it succeeded in somehow making him appear both younger and older at the same time. It was his absent stare that bothered Ben the most; dull and lifeless, Adam's hazel eyes often glistened with a worrisome glint of an emotion so foreign Ben struggled to define it. He was fearful to admit he recognized it, however, for he had seen it over and over, displayed overtly by the Adam of his dreams.

"I have never known your son to decline a scholastic conversation," Martin said. "I asked him a plethora of analytical questions, trying to encourage him to speak. All I was able to get out of him was a nod, a shake of his head, or a shrug."

"Those seem to be his preferred responses as of late," Ben said. Physically present, Adam's thoughts often appeared somewhere else. He didn't seem to actually listen to the things that were being said.

"Not a word," Martin said. "I cannot believe that boy did not say _one word_."

Ben flinched. Slightly—oddly—stung by the label Martin had used to refer to his son. Adam wasn't a boy; he was a grown man and as such he couldn't be told what to do or be forced to speak when he so clearly did not want to. Independent and sovereign, he was reasonably free to make his own choices and do whatever he pleased, making their current predicament much more difficult to navigate than it would be if he were much younger.

If Adam were younger then Ben would know what to do, this was bothersome notion that he seemed unable to dismiss. Highlighting and intensifying his worry and fear, it awakened a truth that refused to be ignored. He was Adam's father and as such he had loved and protected him the entirety of his life; he knew him better than anyone else. He should have been able to help him more than he was; he should have been able to think of the right thing to say or do in order to ease the crippling burden that was slowly pushing Adam into the ground.

"He's lost weight," Martin said. "His complexion is fine, but there are dark circles beneath his eyes. He doesn't appear to be sleeping well."

"He doesn't sleep well. It takes an act of God to get him to eat these days."

"Picky?"

"No. More adverse."

"Opposed to eating," Martin mused. "That's an interesting symptom."

"Of what?"

The doctor appeared thoughtful. "I don't know," he said. "Tell me, Ben, what exactly _did _happen to Adam in that desert?"

Ben shook his head. He wouldn't answer because he didn't know. He could have told Doc Martin about Peter Kane, what the both the Eastgate sheriff and doctor alluded to about the man and how his body had been found in Adam's possession. But he decided against it. The fewer people aware of the evil man's existence the better. Though Doc Martin had always seemed trustworthy enough, he had no intentions of disclosing information that could be used to further the rumors about Adam swirling around Virginia City.

"Be mindful of your son, Ben," Martin said. "It is obvious he has become unbalanced. I am sure I don't need to remind you of analogies of mind sickness, locked dark gates to which there are no keys. I suppose I do not need to remind you of what happened to Ross Marquette either."

With this warning, Doc Martin had left behind more sleeping powder and a promise of a return visit in the following weeks. Ben wasn't sure if he should be concerned or relieved. He was both, he supposed. Concerned over Adam and relieved to have Martin at their disposal to offer educated an opinion and advice—as unsolicited at it had been at first.

And at first, with the memory of Ross Marquette's unsettling decline into madness and eventual death lingering in the forefront of his mind, Ben tried to heed the doctor's instruction. He had tried to set boundaries; he had tried to his best to pull his son further back from the edge of that preverbal cliff, the fine line of behavior he had had been warned about. He had been understanding and gentle until he had been forced to become stern and firm, neither approach ever seemed to work. Adam was nothing if not stubborn. Ben supposed he would have been annoyed if his son's obstinance was not a relief; given the circumstances, it was a comfort. A very small one but a comfort nonetheless.

Still eating meekly, Adam's sleep continued to be sparse as he refused to talk. The chores he was directed to do by his father were completed silently and amicably. Following the advice of Eastgate sheriff, Ben had put Adam back to work; he filled his eldest son's days with menial tasks around the barn, tending to the horses and various animals they kept close to the house, and any arcane pursuits he could conceive of. Adam was more accepting of the former tasks than the latter, preferring physically laborious tasks over intellectual ones. It was an odd development, a sudden change in preference or disposition that was too foreign for Ben to accept.

Who was Adam without curiosity or a deep love for erudite pursuits? Who was his son without his voice? The one he had used to satisfy his thirst for knowledge by posing questions or challenging opinions? Who was Adam now? Ben wasn't sure he knew.

_Can you hang on to me, Pa? _

It was Adam's question that haunted Ben ceaselessly as did the evening around the campfire when Adam had soothed Joe's guilt. It was with great sorrow that he recalled the memory of that night because now he could see so clearly what he had missed. Finding Adam in the desert they had saved him from nothing; the real struggle had only just begun, the fight for the retention of the Adam they knew and recognized. Ben had vowed to hold on to his son but with each passing day it seemed like Adam was slipping more and more from his grasp.

The sun was rising when he finally made his way downstairs. Casting his gaze outside the unshuttered windows at the head of the table, he paused and watched the sky begin to fill with promising rays of light. It was the dawn of yet another day; he wondered what kind of unwelcome changes this one would bring.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Breakfast was a quiet affair.

Even with Adam's silence, this was not often the case. There were always things to discuss about the ranch, plans to be deliberated, chores and tasks to be assigned—the details of which on good days were easily excepted and on others could dissolve any polite conversation into a debate, the battle of wills amongst sons. A steady stream of banter, good or bad, between the brothers was a given. As of late, it had fallen to Joe and Hoss to continue such a thing, which they did with no hesitation and little thought. However, this morning Joe's absence from the table was glaring, serving to somehow highlight how quiet Adam had really become.

Sitting at the head of the table, Ben sipped his coffee and looked thoughtfully between his two present sons. Engaged in the meal before him, Hoss paid his father's attention no heed as his knife and fork scratched sporadically against his plate. It was a common noise to accompany eating, certainly not one which was unique to his middle son; it did not bother Ben in the slightest. Adam, on the other hand, seemed to become more and more troubled each time it was repeated. Teeth clenched, he flinched each time his brother's cutlery touched the plate.

Attention focused on the meal before him, Hoss was either oblivious to his brother's discomfort or he was ignoring it outright. The second option was more likely than the first, as Hoss had become quite apt at silently accepting whatever odd behavior Adam presented. It was something Ben was grateful for the majority of the time; not drawing attention to his older brother's seemingly uncontrollable reactions was an incredibly kindhearted—albeit difficult—thing to do. It was not something Ben or Joe had quite mastered yet.

When Adam did something uncharacteristic, Joe's expression often gave him away as his face contorted with surprise, sadness, or sometimes a combination of the two; tearing his gaze away from his eldest brother, he would do everything he could not to look at him again. This was another form of ignoring for Adam's assumed benefit, Ben knew, but if only Joe could master some control over his expression prior to focusing his attention elsewhere.

Ben's struggled to ignore Adam's startling behavior too. He was often taken aback, deeply saddened to see his eldest begin to display palpable discomfort or an inappropriate facial expression that was more fitting of a young boy than a man. He struggled with disapproval over such things; as Adam's father, he agonized over ignoring and silently accepting, or drawing attention to in order to soothe or correct disagreeable manners. There was always a bit of fear when deciding to correct behavior, apprehension about how instructions would be received and what kind of reaction they would prompt from Adam.

"You headin' to town today, Pa?" Hoss asked, finally taking control over their extended silence.

"I was planning on it," Ben said. "Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking of heading over to join Joe at the timber camp. I wanted to make sure he was fairing okay with those men. We got more than a few rowdy ones on the payroll; I want to make sure Joe's handling 'em okay."

"I'm sure he's doing just fine," Ben assured. "If he wasn't, we would have heard something by now."

Hoss shook his head. "I dunno, Pa. Joe's stubborn. He ain't never been one to ask for help until it's almost too late. If it's just the same to you, I'd like to go anyway. I wasn't planning on staying long, maybe just a few hours or so, just long enough to check up on Joe without him getting suspicious and thinkin' that I came to check up on him."

Smiling, Ben nodded. Joe wouldn't like it, but there was little point in a disagreeing and no reason to stop Hoss from following through on what he intended.

Clearing his plate, Hoss set his attention on his coffee. The edge of the mug had only just left his lips as both he and Ben watched Adam push Hoss's empty plate towards the center of the table, replacing it with his untouched one.

Adam forcing his food upon Hoss was an ongoing habit, one which bothered Ben and Hop Sing to no end. Worry over Adam's weight and health where the underlying motivation for their respective concern, though neither man cited their true reasons for being galled by such a thing. Hop Sing would readily declare self-depreciating statements about his food not being good. Ben had come to rely on a directive he had last used when Joe was a youth.

"Clean your plate," he often found himself saying. Firm and direct, it was an order that felt foreign and incredibly wrong directed at his oldest son; they were both much too old for such instruction to be uttered over meals even though it was never obeyed. Sometimes Adam ignored the command completely; others he set his attention on Ben, his eyes narrowing stubbornly, glistening defiantly with a supposed question: What are you going to do if I don't?

And in response to this, Ben would do nothing, because the few times that he had done something hadn't ended well. When asked to do most things, Adam was companionable and compliant, but if firmly directed to do something he didn't want to do he would become disorderly, erratic, anxious and furious, or worse despondent.

The first time Ben had directed Adam to eat, Adam had responded by pushing his plate on the floor. Hoss and Joe had looked between their father and older brother and Ben had seen his own emotions etched on both of their faces, shock, alarm and horror. Adam, on the other hand, had been displaying an emotion so powerful it had left Ben speechless. Potent and thunderous, there was hatred shining in his hazel eyes, the level of which Ben had never seen his son direct at anyone, much less himself. It frightened him in a way he couldn't explain. There was a palpable threat lingering behind in the darkness of Adam's expression that made Ben think of things better left alone.

It reminded him of the way Adam had looked at the doctor in Eastgate and that led him to think about the Eastgate Sheriff's disinterest about whether his son had killed Peter Kane or not. The Sheriff had said that if Adam had killed Kane then Kane probably deserved it. Ben didn't believe his son capable of such a thing but something about Adam's menacing stare awakened other long buried memories and gave birth to a tiny horrifying sliver of doubt.

The pushing of the plate off the table was the first occasion Ben became properly acquainted with his eldest son's fervent need to be in control and this awakened recollection of how the Eastgate doctor had spoken to his son. He had talked to Adam in a manner that suggested he was in complete control and when that hadn't worked, he had made the swift decision to put Adam to sleep. The doctor had known quickly he wasn't going to get anywhere favorable with Adam; he had _known_ exactly how to approach the situation from the very beginning. Now, Ben wondered what else the doctor had known and why he couldn't have shared the knowledge.

Unnerved by Adam's anger, Ben had done nothing in response to his son's childish behavior the first time or the second; by the third time, his own anger over his son's blatant insolence had reached a tipping point. He had ordered Adam to his room; it was the gravest punishment he could think of for a man who didn't like being alone.

Shepherding Adam to his bedroom, Ben had ushered him inside, told him to think about what he'd done, then ordered him not to emerge until he could hold himself to a higher standard of behavior. Though he couldn't have known it at the time, this was another decision he would come to look back on with abounding grief and deep regret.

He had thought he was doing the right thing. Finally drawing firm lines between what was appropriate and intolerable. He had thought he was doing what was best. And when Adam had remained in his bedroom, quiet and alone, for nearly two hours, Ben had taken that as a good sign too. Perhaps this was the firm push Adam had needed to begin his journey in the right direction.

It was creeping up on the third hour of isolation when he decided to check on his son. What he found left him as horrified as he had been when they found Adam wandering the desert.

Adam had removed his clothes, discarding them in a haphazard trail which began at the door and led around the opposite side of his bed. Ben followed boot after boot, sock after sock, shirt, belt, and pants before he found Adam. The very state of his son took his breath away.

The chest of drawers had been pushed away from the corner to make room for Adam, who sat naked and trembling, body shoved between the side of the dresser and the wall. He had rubbed both his wrists and ankles raw; red, angry and close to bleeding, they reminded Ben of other wounds he had once seen marring his son's body; they reminded him of his foolish instructions.

Think about what you did, that was what Ben had ordered Adam to do.

Legs bent, his hands placed limply on his knees, Adam stared aimlessly out the bedroom window and appeared to be incapable of thinking about anything. He had thought about something, Ben was certain of that. During the three hours he had forced his son to sit alone, Adam had had thoughts. Thoughts that had implored him to take off his clothes; thoughts that had forced him to hurt himself; thoughts that had made him crawl into the smallest safe space he could find.

Oh, dear Lord. What happened in the desert? What had he ordered his son to think about?

The memory of the rest of that day had become a blur, and the memory of the few days after were a blur too. Still, Ben recalled a few things. Like how Adam hadn't fought as he pulled him from the corner and into his arms; how his body had felt heavy, limp, and cold. He remembered bellowing for someone to fetch Doc Martin and he remembered Martin's diagnosis of Adam's condition. An interesting sort of psychosis, that was the what the doctor had said and Ben remembered thinking interesting wasn't the word he would have chosen. Terrifying, gut-wrenching maybe, never interesting.

Staring absently, Adam was catatonic; it took four days and three nights for his condition to change and during this time Ben was forced to care for his son as he had in the boarding house in Eastgate.

Rising the early hours on the fifth day to check on him, Ben found Adam's bed empty and panic engulfed him. It was an all-encompassing feeling, fear of not knowing where his son was coupled mixed with deep dread of what he would find; throughout these overpowering emotions a new question emerged, one which he would become achingly familiar with. What has Adam done to himself now?

He found Adam when he burst into Hoss's bedroom, intent on rallying him for a search.

"Pa!" Hoss had hissed. Laying on his back, he held finger to his lips and glanced at Adam who lay still, sleeping behind him in the bed. "He just fell asleep," he mouthed, looking at his father once more.

Ben was flabbergasted. Emerging from his psychosis as quickly as he had sunken into it, that became the first occasion Adam slept in Hoss's bed. Ben had wanted to say something; he had wanted to tell Hoss not allow it. But his guilt and his fear over Adam returning to his previous unresponsive state prevented him from saying a word.

Looking at Adam now, sitting next to him at the table, Ben sighed as the lackluster order fell from his mouth, "Clean your plate, Adam."

The direction was neglected by Adam, but it was Hoss who had other plans. "No, sir," he said as he pushed the plate back in front of Adam. "Not today. Eat up, older brother; you're going need it."

Adam frowned. His obvious objection was ignored by Hoss just as Ben knew it would be. While Hoss was the best at weathering Adam's capricious behavior, he was also the most successful at gently molding his defiance into compliance. Ben wasn't completely certain why this would be, but he had his theories, the most convincing of which was their closeness in age. Adam was older than Hoss and as such Adam had never been in a position to take orders from him. Hoss had never had any authority over Adam, therefore there was no reason to react negatively to any of his wishes. Even from Ben's point of view, Hoss's directions to Adam were more wishes than demands.

"Don't scowl at me," Hoss said as he held his brother's gaze. "It's the truth. It ain't my fault there's been a choice set before you today, one you haven't had to make in quite a while."

Forehead wrinkling, Adam's brows furrowed, a clear indication he wasn't following Hoss's train of thought.

"You're gonna need to eat breakfast on a day like today, what with me heading to see Joe at the timber camp and Pa going to town."

Looking between Ben and Hoss, Adam shrugged indifferently. _What does that matter?_ his expression seemed to ask.

Absently, Ben found himself wondering the same thing.

"Seeing as how we don't like thinkin' of you at home all alone, it seems to me that you have a choice to make," Hoss continued. "You can either join Pa in town, or you can head over to the timber camp with me and either way you're gonna need good meal inside your belly."

Adam looked at Ben with wide eyes. Any displeasure he had been feeling had been chased away by apprehension. Mouth hanging slightly agape, he shook his head in an overwhelmed manner, his eyes pleading for Ben to dismiss the choice Hoss was presenting. The choice itself was another firm push of sorts in a positive direction, but the past had left Ben wary of pushes and directions that seemed right at certain times.

_Papa, please._

Ben saw the silent plea glistening in his son's eyes, reawakening a crystal-clear memory of Adam's words. Last spoken months ago now, they often reasserted themselves in moments like this, occasions when he knew he should expect more from Adam than Adam seemed willing or able to give. Right now, they reminded him of Adam's third option—the one which Hoss had conveniently forgotten to offer.

"Or," Ben began.

"Pa," Hoss objected.

"...you can stay home with Hop Sing."

Ben felt a sting of regret as Adam's face fell; a deep pool of guilt settled in the pit of his stomach as he watched his son shift nervously in his seat. _He's not the same_, Ben imagined him saying. _He's not like Hoss or you. _

This was a glaring fact. Though Hop Sing loved Adam—he cared about his health and wellbeing as much as the rest of them—he wasn't able to offer the kind of physical protection, strength and support that either Hoss or Ben could provide. Ben knew—as he was sure Hoss did—Adam wouldn't choose remaining at the ranch house with Hop Sing. Perhaps that was why Hoss hadn't suggested it. The decision was difficult enough without adding a third unviable option, one that would only serve to highlight Adam's fear of being left alone in the wrong company. Still, as far as choices went, the one Hoss had presented seemed insurmountable. A trip to either town or the timber camp both promised unpredictably and encounters with strangers; they both would take Adam away from the carefully cultivated comfort and safety of home.

Looking at Adam, noting his anxiety and fear, Ben struggled with enforcing the choice. He didn't really need to go to town today, did he? Perhaps he could postpone it for another day. Or maybe he and Hoss could stagger their respective trips, allowing Adam to remain home with one of them at a time.

"Pa," Hoss prompted, casting his father a serious look, imploring him to stand by what had been said.

It was with this that Ben knew why the trip had been suggested and what needed to be done. Hoss wasn't worried about Joe, he was concerned about Adam; the proposed visit the timber camp was merely ceremonial, a carefully constructed ruse meant to force Adam in choosing one uncomfortable option over another. But at least Hoss had given Adam the choice, control over how the day would unfold.

Looking at Adam again, Ben found himself assaulted by his son's palpable unease.

_Papa, please._

The plea immerged once more, bringing other memories with it. The image of what had happened the last time he had forced Adam to do something he hadn't wanted to do. He had found him conscious and unresponsive in his bedroom; his psychosis had lasted for days. Could that happen again if pushed too far? If required to make a decision he wasn't prepared to follow through on?

Doc Martin had seemed to believe it could. "If it happened once, it is likely it will happen again," he had said. "If that's reason enough not to expect him to ever do anything he doesn't want to is for you to decide. Adam might just be a changed man. What he experienced might have been horrible enough that he may never recover from it. There's a possibility he may never be who he once was, and if that is the case then it begs the question of who he is going to be now. If he never changes from how he currently is then the question becomes how he fits into your life and how you fit into his."

At the time, Ben hadn't looked upon Martin's words favorably. He didn't like what the man suggesting, about his son, himself or his other sons. If Adam was irrevocably changed by what he had experienced, if he was destined to spend the rest of his life silent and afraid, clinging to Hoss and the predictability that only his immediate surroundings could offer, of course he would still fit into their lives. Expectations would be adjusted, allotments with odd behaviors would be made, Ben would love and take care of Adam for the remainder of his life and after, when he was gone and buried and no longer able, he was certain that Hoss and Joe would do the same. It wasn't a question of how any of them fit into the lives of one another. They were family; their love for one another was never something to be questioned.

But the real questions were these: If the Adam they knew was gone, how would they ever know what this Adam was capable of if they never tried to do anything other than what he was comfortable with? Was he going to exist like this forever? Or was he going to regain some of the independence the desert had stolen from him? How far could they push him in what he perceived as frightening directions? How would they ever know if they didn't try?

Despite his apprehension, the fear born from past experiences, Ben knew they had to try.

He smiled encouragingly at his eldest son. "Those seem to be the options today, Adam," he said gently. "If you don't want to stay behind with Hop Sing, then that only leaves two other choices. Hoss is heading to the timber camp and I'm going to town. You're going to have to accompany one of us."

Shaking his head vigorously, Adam pursed his lips with such force that they slowly turned white.

"No ain't an option, brother," Hoss said softly. "Not today. You think about which of us you'd rather go with while you eat and after you can decide what you want to do. Take your time; me and Pa'll wait.

Staring stubbornly at the plate of food before him, Adam made no effort to commence eating. His hands remained at his sides, his fork and knife untouched on the table as he shook his head again.

Ben didn't know what Adam was refusing, eating the food, making the choice, or perhaps both. He found himself holding his breath, anxiously waiting and watching for Adam to finally make a move. A few minutes passed with all three of them locked in some strange stalemate, Adam staring at the food before him as Ben and Hoss looked on.

Chewing his bottom lip, Adam seemed to be thinking about something; Ben hoped he wasn't gearing up for another violent tantrum. He prayed for the strength to remain steadfast in enforcing choice and that Adam's response both before and after being forced to venture outside the safety of the immediate ranch yard would be a positive one.

"Adam," Ben said softly as he willed the correct words to come to mind. "Son… Only you can decide what to do today, but I don't want you to forget you have a choice. It is your decision to leave or stay, and no matter what you choose—no matter what you decide—you aren't alone. You are never alone. I'm here, and Hoss and Joe, they're here too. We're all here beside you and we're not going to let anything bad happen to you, no matter what you choose."

Reaching over, he picked up Adam's fork and extended it, a silent offering for his son to summon enough courage to take a first step. Adam stared at the utensil for a moment, his eyes clouding over with some emotion Ben couldn't decipher. It wasn't anger or fear, hesitance or repudiation or any of the other emotions he had become accustomed to seeing. This was different; new, stubborn, strange but dark and a bit unnerving, he couldn't begin to define it. Then as quickly as it appeared it was gone, replaced by something else, a familiar abiding glint that allowed Ben a momentary glimpse of the old Adam. It served as the beacon of hope Ben had been waiting for. It gave birth to a tiny spark of optimism, a feeling that only grew as Adam finally nodded and took the fork from his hand.

"There's great big world out there, you know," Hoss said softly as Adam began to push the food around his plate. "It's been missing you. It's high time you started finding your place in it again."

Eating at a glacial pace, Adam didn't come close to clearing his plate. He didn't eat near as much as Ben wanted or hoped but at least he tried. His effort was appreciated, the difficulty of such a thing understood. He had gone so long without eating in the morning, his stomach simply wasn't accustomed to it anymore.

Adam chose to accompany Hoss. The decision itself wasn't a surprise, but Ben's immediate disappointment was. He didn't realize he was hoping Adam would choose town, his company over that of his middle son. Even though he knew Adam was in good hands he still harbored unease. He would have liked to have been present should any complications arise.

The weather was turning as where the colors of the landscape surrounding them. There was chill on the air. A bit blistery and biting, it promised to linger the remainder of the day. Fall had come and winter was well on its way. The change in temperature wasn't new, however, it had gone unnoticed by Adam today. Ben had to remind his son to put on his coat and his hat, something that did nothing to ease his building apprehension over his sons' impending trip. Adam's waist remained unadorned by a gun belt—another thing that added to Ben's unease. Neither he nor Hoss had believed handing a pistol to Adam was a good idea. This wasn't something that had been discussed rather silently decided upon and accepted. They didn't need to explain to one another why such a thing would be worrisome; Adam had been known to hurt himself before.

Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Ben watched Adam and Hoss prepare their horses from a distance. Having completed saddling Sport, Adam stood beside the animal, his right hand extended, his fingers burrowed in-between the hair on the horse's neck. He looked uncertain and afraid, his tightening grip on Sport's coat slight proof of the overbearing emotions he was struggling to contain.

Moving to stand beside him, Ben wanted to hug Adam; but he forced himself to refrain. If physical displays of affection had been verboten before Adam's time in the desert then they were downright criminal now—that was unless, of course, the action was initiated by Adam. Adam neither moved nor showed any indication that a hug or touch was needed or would be well-received. Ben stayed inches away as his son refused to look him in the eye. He wondered if this was due to anger and resentment over the trip, or fear of losing the sliver of nerve Adam had somehow managed to produce.

Ben wanted to tell him that it was going to be okay. He wanted to say that a trip the timber camp wasn't anything to be concerned over. It didn't warrant this much worry and apprehension. It was commonplace. Adam had been there numerous times before and now he was going again. And besides that, Hoss was going too. Mighty, unfailing jovial Hoss. Adam couldn't have picked a better man to accompany him if he tried. The only other person who could possibly defend and shield him better was his father—and perhaps Little Joe.

Adam's troubled gaze was locked on the brown wood of the barn wall and Ben felt a rush of guilt over what he was asking him to do. He wanted to say something—anything—to ease his son's trepidation—and his own—but he wasn't allotted the chance.

Grabbing Ben's arm, Hoss pulled him toward the barn door. "Pa, please don't fuss," he requested, his voice a low hiss. "Adam's already nervous. You'll only make it harder on him if you start acting worried-like."

Looking over Hoss's shoulder, Ben cast Adam a worried look. He hadn't moved; he didn't show any interest in what his brother and father were discussing as he remained in place, his hand burrowed in Sport's hair, his eyes, wide and vacant, frozen on the wall.

He's not ready for this, Ben thought, somehow already knowing the trip was destined to fail.

What was going to happen to Adam when the day went south? When what should have been an easy excursion catapulted them further and further into this nightmare that had become their life? What then? What would Adam do? And would Ben say to justify forcing him to make the decision that led his downfall?

"I don't think this is a good idea," Ben whispered. "Son, I think that—"

"Pa," Hoss whispered seriously. "He's gotta try some time, you know that as well I do."

"Maybe now is too soon. It's cold today. Maybe we should wait for the weather to improve."

"That ain't going to happen any day soon. It's only going to get colder from here on out; it'll be spring before the weather turns nice again."

Ben knew Hoss was right though the knowledge did nothing to ease the feeling of overwhelming wrongness that was overtaking him as he was reminded of what Adam had said months ago when making the argument to travel to Eastgate.

_Summer goes awfully fast around here. Spring and Fall pass by a man before he even knows they've truly arrived. It'll be winter soon and then there won't be going much of anywhere at all, except for maybe the barn and some of the closer pasture. I need to get out while I still can._

And even now, despite all the changes they had endured, Ben knew—as Hoss did too—Adam's words rang true. If they didn't try now, if they didn't take advantage of the last few weeks of fall weather, then they would be waiting months before any of them would feel comfortable trying again. And what would happen to Adam in the interim? His fear and avoidance would probably intensify, consuming him and rendering the very idea of venturing outside of his comfort zone impossible forever.

Despite all of this, the sad irony of their current predicament wasn't lost on Ben. There was a time when it seemed as though he wouldn't be able to keep Adam home and now he struggled to encourage him enough to ever leave. Oh, lord how that hurt; it cut deeper than he could have ever imagined to have his son's determined adventurous flame snuffed out so suddenly only to be replaced by such overpowering uncertainty and distress.

Adam had been born a wanderer; it didn't seem right to accept him any other way. Ben would—of course, he would—still his acceptance of such things seemed wrong somehow. Though there was a time when he would have rejoiced the day Adam decided to stay home permanently, he didn't rejoice in this. He couldn't and he wouldn't. He would love his son unconditionally however he appeared before him, but he would forever morn the determined, efficacious and independent man that had been lost.

"It's gonna be okay, Pa," Hoss said, unknowingly voicing the reassurance father had longed to say to Adam. "He'll be fine. I'll take care of him; I'll bring him home safe and sound, I promise."

Though he didn't want to, Ben found himself nodding in return. "Keep him close."

"I will."

"Watch him _carefully_."

"I will."

"And stay away from cliffs."

"Cliffs?" Hoss asked, his nose scrunched with confusion.

"Promise me," Ben urged.

Hoss shrugged, still not understanding why such a vow needed to be made. "I promise," he said easily.

Ben prayed it wasn't another oath destined to be broken.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Ben spent the afternoon in Virginia City.

Watching Adam and Hoss leave, he had almost pitched the idea of the trip. It took every amount of control he had to follow through on what he had originally planned for the day and not follow his sons. Standing just outside the barn, he had taken a deep breath and held it before finally expelling both it and the idea of trailing behind his sons.

Adam was in good hands; Hoss was quite capable of safely negotiating any complication that could arise—from either the land they were traveling or his older brother. Everything would be fine; Adam would be fine. In a handful of hours both of his sons would return home, safe and sound as promised, and Ben and Hoss and Adam would finally rejoice in a day gone well. A much needed beacon of hope in the dark horizon of the future.

Adam would be fine. With Hoss at his side, watching and protecting him, how could he not be?

Forcing a tight smile, Ben silently posed this question to himself over and over on his way into town, like a mantra of positivity whose repetition would eventually soothe his worry away. It didn't work. If anything, it only added to his unease. He couldn't help feeling something was bound to go wrong, that the decision he had forced Adam to make was destined to become another mistake. He had made so many mistakes where Adam was concerned, bad decisions which spanned decades now, beginning at his son's birth and continuing through the present. He didn't know how he would bear another.

As a young man, Ben hadn't been a keen listener. He was companionable and jovial but he had temper that carried a dangerous edge. None of this seemed to be too much of problem before he was father or even when he was merely a husband for the first time. Elizabeth had had a way about her, a warmth and graciousness that could navigate and dismantle his anger, soothing the dangerous discontent which lurked below the surface into peace. She had been an asset to him, her presence the only thing he needed to keep his fear of impending fatherhood at bay. He would be a fine father because of her ability to steer his anger toward peace. Their baby would be happy and healthy, forever safe and unharmed because of her equalizing and stabilizing warmth. Or so Ben had thought. Then Elizabeth had died and nothing which followed after seemed to ever unfold according to plan.

That was not to say that Ben thought he was a terrible father; he had come across more than a few of those type of men over his lifetime to see the differences between himself and them. Terrible fathers were either too hard or too soft; they either demanded too much or too little, and through their actions they taught their children to fear or disrespect them. Ben knew he wasn't like that. He knew that on an imaginary scale of fatherhood he had landed somewhere safely in-between good and bad.

His sons loved and respected him; with his guidance they had grown into strong, capable, and beneficent men. He hadn't been alone in shaping Adam and Hoss into young men; before her death, Marie had been a great help with this, and after she was gone, Adam and Hoss had been gracious enough to help Little Joe along, modeling their patience and compassion in such a way that Joe had no choice but to conform. And before Marie, there had been Inger, Hoss's mother and the woman Ben knew Adam would forever hold as his mama in his heart; the day they had met her had changed everything, because before there had been Inger, it had just been Adam and Ben.

Little Adam, who had been early to walk, late to talk, and eternally small for his age. With big, hazel eyes, dark hair, and deep dimples, he had been such a stunning child. Like Elizabeth before them, women had often remarked on his beauty—first as infant, then as a boy, and even now as an adult. Ben knew that as a grown man his son was revered and swooned over by the opposite sex. He had been a beautiful boy and he had grown into a handsome man.

When Ben looked at his son, he saw hints of Elizabeth —he always had and he supposed he always would. She was in his eyes, mannerisms, and evil half-smirk. She was in his patience and kindness, his ability to remain resolute in his beliefs even if he was alone; she was in his wiliness to stand up for others no matter the cost to himself. She was in his laughter and his smile and any other attribute he had that would ever be defined as good.

For Adam's anger, however, Ben blamed himself.

Adam was such a fine man, poised, reasonable, astute, but there was a darkness lurking beneath the surface of his demeanor. Ben knew this because he had seen it before; what he saw in his son he recognized in himself.

Ben's anger had always been with him; it was a gift from his father, he supposed, a characteristic that seemed to be hereditary in the Cartwright line. His grandfather had been a brutal man, his father less so, and Ben and his brother, John, even less than him. Still, there was an anger that lived inside of them, one which—in Ben's younger days—left him quick to react and slow to think. His anger had always been there, lurking, but it was his travels West with Adam that had caused it aspirate.

There had been nothing romantic about the traveling West with an infant. It was intensely challenging, eternally difficult, and all-too-often terrifying. A lot of people they had come across were companionable, supportive, and kind. Others were hazardous, violent and sinister. Men—and occasionally women—whose only goal in life was to survive, to have what they desired by whatever means necessary. They had come across men who had robbed them, barren women who were intent on having Adam and raising him as their own. Traveling West, Ben had anticipated coming across Natives of the land, but he was unprepared for the level of savagery displayed by his own kind. There is a certain type of fury intense fear can give birth to, especially the fear turned fury of a widowed man who would do anything in his power to protect his child.

Adam saw things Ben wished he wouldn't have. He heard him bellow dangerous warnings and he watched him fight. It couldn't have been helped; the things Adam was exposed to were symptomatic of their surroundings. Protecting him from the knowledge of the brutality of people was a luxury Ben had never had. Shielding his son from being exposed to his father's own formability, furious and dangerous when pushed, was an option Ben was never presented.

He wasn't an abusive man. He adored his son; he never hurt him outside of punishing him for his own good. This was a resolute fact that was difficult for a young child to understand—or reconcile with the violence he had seen. Toddlers couldn't understand context, how his father could hurt someone who threatened their safety but would never dare raise a hand to him to do the same.

Adam was nearly two before Ben realized how much his voice could genuinely terrify his child. He was nearly three when he began palpably fearing his father's responses to even the most minor of accidents and bad behavior. And Adam was five before Ben made any solid strides toward improvement. With Inger by his side he was no longer alone in minding and protecting Adam; he had a wife and partner, someone whom he loved and trusted indefinitely. It was her love, her faith in the goodness of humanity, which had begun to soften some of the edges Ben hadn't realized had begun to grow coarse. Adam had seemed wary of the changes in his father at first. He didn't trust the longevity of such a thing, and in response to this distrust, the boy did what he always did—what he would always do—he became quiet.

And time marched on. Hoss was born and Inger died but her influence lingered. Ben tapered his anger, reigning it in when need be; he was determined that Hoss would never come to fear him in the way that Adam once had. Life moved on, some could even argue it improved; Hoss grew at a steady rate and Adam learned not to fear his father's anger rather to respect it instead.

Adam was eleven the first time he exhibited the same uncontrollable rage his father had once displayed—something that even now Ben still believed wasn't entirely his son's fault. After all, he was a boy protecting his little brother; he was just doing what Ben hadn't realized he had taught his son to do.

It was shortly after Marie and he had been married and she was newly pregnant with Joe. Meeting in Louisiana, their courtship had been quick, the conception of their baby even more so, and the weeks which followed their return from New Orleans all this proved to be an incredibly rough transition for Adam. He wasn't used to having a stepmother; he wasn't keen on having this stranger live in their home.

Marie was nothing short of a saint, weathering Adam's skepticism and distrust. Her personality was warm; she was patient; and she was kind. But at the time, she had also been with child which left her occasionally captive to certain types of moods.

If Ben closed his eyes, he could recall with appalling clarity the details of that morning. The four of them had been gathered around the breakfast table. Usually so jovial, Hoss had awoken with a sour outlook; he was fussing over his pancakes not being cut properly.

It wasn't the way Pa did it, that what Hoss had said to Marie as she stood behind his chair.

Marie was short on patience that day—something that even later she readily admitted to. She told Hoss eat them anyway, and Hoss responded with shrill whining and tears. It was a grinding combination to endure that early in the morning. Ben had every intention of putting a stop to it, but Marie got there first. Grabbing Hoss's arm, she ordered him to either eat quietly or retire to his bedroom for some alone time. Hoss, being the sensitive young boy he was, didn't follow the order Marie had given; he looked at Marie's hand still clutching his arm and screamed instead.

"You're hurting me!"

And then it happened. The one thing Ben never anticipated ever would.

Leaping out of his chair, Adam grabbed a knife from the table. Springing to stand next to Marie, he held the blade of the knife to the veins on her wrist. His expression was dark, a threat lurked in his eyes, and then came the words, low and daggerous, "You let my brother go."

Ben had always considered himself a man of action, however, in that moment, his shock had rendered him unable to move. He and Marie looked at one another, their horrified expressions mirroring one another. Absently, Marie let go of Hoss and only then did Adam seem truly aware of what he had done. He was horrified; the knife clattered the floor as he looked at his father and burst into tears. And only then did Ben finally move.

Leading a sobbing Adam to the barn, Ben was overcome by guilt and shame. It was he who had taught Adam to react like that. Still, such a thing couldn't go unpunished—they both knew that.

But in that moment, Ben immediately knew he would not do what his father did; this was not something he would try and fail to beat out of his son. Instead, he would teach his son to use words to express what was causing such powerful emotion.

He sat Adam on a hay bale, then crouched down and looked him in the eye. "Use your words, Adam," he had said. "There is a difference between bravery and violence born from fear. When you feel fear that controls you like that, you use your words; you speak wisely and directly or you try to walk away."

This was an instruction he would never need to repeat to his first-born son. It was a lesson learned, so frightening and painful for both of them, the first time.

Though Adam would heed his father's instruction a part of Ben would always worry about his eldest son. If Adam had felt the kind of fear that translated to violence before, he could feel it again. It was a worry that over time Ben found himself dismissing and burying deep, because as Adam grew, he became a thoughtful young man, purposeful and reasonable, quite apt at controlling his emotions.

Still, the smallest hints of the familiar anger would pop up from time to time; dangerous and volatile, it would rear its ugly head in moments when Adam became particularly outraged or frustrated—when some threat or injustice seemed more than he could navigate or bear. Even though Adam never acted physically on such feelings, each time they were displayed Ben would be reacquainted with shame and guilt; he would be reminded of not what was, but what could have been had Adam not learned composure.

Ben had seen a hint of this anger the day he and Adam had spoken about windmills; overly frustrated over not obtaining his father's consent, Adam had heeded his father's long since given advice about walking away but not before throwing his hat on the floor. Ben had become overcome by guilt in that moment too, which was why he allowed his son to go.

The Peter Kane of Ben's dreams had said Adam was manipulative for acting in such ways. Ben didn't agree. In his eyes, Adam was only displaying what he had been taught by his father when they were both too young to know how such things would complicate the future.

He didn't know as a young man what he knew now. He didn't know how susceptible children were, how they watched, retained and eventually modeled every action and every habit, good and bad, absorbing words and details like a sponge. He didn't know how anger could shape a child. How they could become angry themselves. He didn't know how Adam's fear as a toddler would linger too. How even in his thirties he would sometime still struggle becoming the focus of his father's disapproval.

Most of the time, Adam could remain unaffected by Ben harsher tones and he would bellow right back, others he would flinch or cringe, his face set with uncontrolled nervousness. You're shouting, he would say, a quiet reminder—and plea—for Ben to stop. And Ben would stop, then he would take his own advice.

It was the knowledge of how the past had shaped the present coupled with all the unknowns that worried Ben now. It was the occasional harshness he saw in Adam's eyes since finding him wandering the desert that reminded him the Cartwright fury lived on. Infamous and hereditary, it was in Adam and it was in Joe though there were distinct differences between the two. Adam's anger was a different kind of volatility than Joe displayed. It was a grown man's anger, fury that could only be cultivated in response to the most terrible of things. It was serious, threatening and dark. It promised pain—both for whoever was on the receiving end of it and Adam once he calmed down enough to realize his mistakes.

Was that what Adam doing now? Realizing his mistakes? Was that the reason for the silence, sleepless nights, and drastic changes in behavior? Was Adam holding himself responsible for his actions because he knew no one else would?

What had happened in the desert? Had Adam tried to use his words with Kane and when that hadn't worked had he tried to walk away? If so, then why on earth had such a thing not been allowed? And if walking away hadn't been allowed, had Kane taunted, abused, and pushed Adam into make a mistake?

Adam was a moral man, and, judging by the knowledge of others, Peter Kane wasn't. Kane was a devil of a man—or so Ben had heard. If Adam had acted out of anger in order to protect himself, then did that not make the action defensible? He had done what he needed to survive an assumed monster. How could any of it be perceived as wrong?

The Eastgate Sheriff hadn't deemed Kane's death wrong. It was the educated opinion of law—something which Adam had always held in such high regard—that Adam was innocent of any crime. Who was Ben or Adam or anyone else to disagree with what the lawman had decreed?

All Ben had were questions, haunting memories, and bad dreams. He felt culpable for the intense anger he had seen Adam display only once as a child. He felt guilty over recalling the memory now, using it to question and theorize about his son's actions in the desert. How could he dare think of such a thing?

Adam was alive and Peter Kane wasn't. Ben didn't want to believe his son killed the man, but there had been strangulation marks on Kane's neck. He didn't want to believe Adam was capable of taking a life in such a way, but he knew there was a fury that lived deep inside of his son that could be unearthed if he became fearful enough. If Kane had done something, if he and Adam had come across each other in the desert and Kane had been truly horrible or he hadn't allowed Adam to escape him, then there was no telling what could have happened between the two.

The one person who could explain what happened wasn't talking. Adam had taken to acting strangely instead. If only they could have a conversation. If only Adam would talk to him, use his words and allow him to know what had happened in order to understand why it was affecting him so much. Ben only wanted to understand, then maybe he would know what to do; he would finally be able to give Adam what he needed to overcome what he had endured. He could help shoulder some of the blame of whatever it was Adam had done that was so wrong. Wasn't it the responsibility of fathers to carry some blame and responsibility for the mistakes of their sons?

Entering Virginia City, Ben made quick work of his errands, then he stopped by the saloon for a drink to calm his nerves. He tried hard to ignore the curious stares and officious—downright rude—questions about Adam from the people surrounding him. He reminded himself curiosity was one thing he could understand. Adam hadn't been to town in months, people were bound to be interested as to why, and judging by how he was received, it was a trip that Ben would not allow his son to make anytime soon. He grateful for Hoss and the decision Adam had made to accompany his brother. There were just some occasions when curiosity did more harm than good. There were a whole heap of things Ben couldn't protect his son from now, but he could shelter him from this.

He finished his drink and left the saloon, intent on returning home to wait for his sons. Walking down the thoroughfare, his feet didn't lead him to his horse; it wasn't long until he found himself entering Doc Martin's office instead.

Lingering just inside the doorway, he didn't know why he had come or what it was he wanted to say. Nothing, he supposed, because there was no reason for him to seek out the doctor, nothing he wanted to ask or share or any information to be gleaned from a conversation with yet another curious party. He had decided upon shielding Adam from the curiosity of others, so what the devil was he doing here? He should turn around, exit the building, return home, and wait as he had intended. He shouldn't have been there at all.

"Ben?"

Doc Martin's voice broke through his thoughts and Ben found the man accessing him from the doorway to the back room.

Martin nodded in greeting. "Something I can help you with today?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Martin appeared skeptical. "Everything alright with Adam?" he asked.

For a few terrible seconds, Ben wasn't certain how to respond. He shouldn't be here; he shouldn't have come. He should turn around, return home and wait for his sons.

"I suppose," he said eventually, the low response escaping him despite his determination otherwise. "Hoss took him to the timber camp today. It's the first time he's been away from the house since we brought him home."

Martin's face softened with a smile. "Well, that is a pleasant development."

Nodding, Ben didn't trust himself to reply. He shouldn't have stopped at the saloon; he only partook in one drink, not nearly enough to leave him inebriated or soothe his unease, but it had led him here and he feared it would loosen his tongue. He didn't want to talk about Adam with the doctor; he didn't want to betray his son's privacy that way. Whatever was going on with his son was a family matter; it demanded caution and discretion.

"It is normal for you to fret over such a thing," Martin said as though privy to Ben's thoughts. "With your ferocity over those boys, I would be concerned about your current state of health if you did not feel, at the very least, a little alarmed over Adam's first trip since he was found."

"Hoss is with him," Ben said. He didn't know if the statement was meant to appease Martin or himself. "And Joe too, once they arrive. They won't be staying all day, just a couple hours or so."

"Then I am certain the excursion will be a successful one."

Feigning assurance, Ben nodded once more. He had a horrific feeling about this day and the trip. A nagging concern that refused to calmed. The last time he had allowed his son to leave hadn't ended well and Adam had been acting normally then. Now he was so changed, so impacted. What made Ben believe this trip could would be any different than the last? How could he know anything when everything he did not was so glaring?

"We found Adam with a dead man," Ben said, the soft admission escaping him before he could silence it. Once the statement came, it was impossible to cease talking, or calm his stifling concern for his son. "He was dragging the body around, laughing and mumbling about gold and games. And when I came upon him, when I first grasped his shoulders and struggled to look him in the eye, he didn't even know I was there."

Martin was visibly perplexed. "But he did recognize you eventually?"

"He did and then he didn't and then he did again. He was... agitated...angry... confused." Ben shook his head mournfully. "Afraid."

"Of you?"

"Of everything… He was out in the desert when we found him; he was in the middle of nowhere, wandering as he pulled that man's body around. He was beaten, exhausted, dehydrated and starved. The ride to Eastgate was challenging, and when we arrived, the challenges only seemed to become worse. Adam didn't want the doctor to examine him. He—I— had to coax him into drinking powder to make him sleep before such a thing was possible. He was..." Ben paused, exhaling heartily and feeling impossibly old. "He was in such a state, Paul. I've never seen him act like that before. He _screamed _and _cried _and when he did it was like he was never going to stop."

"I see."

Do you? Ben wanted to ask. Was there more something see? Some telling hint that made everything make more sense than it did? Had a detail gone ignored at the time and was now forgotten? Dismissed by the horrible reality of their everyday life.

"I take it Adam calmed eventually," Martin said.

"He did."

Even then, Adam wasn't the same as before. Looking back now, Ben could understand that something inside of Adam was already starting to shift. Something had changed.

"He wasn't the same," Ben said. "He was... _different_. He's been different since."

"And the nature of his injuries when you found him were what exactly?"

Startled by the question, it took a moment for Ben to remember that the state of Adam's body upon being found had never been shared with the Virginia City doctor. Doc Martin had come to the Ponderosa weeks after, looking in upon Adam by his own volition, any physical proof of Adam's difficultly—save for the weight he had lost and his visual tiredness—had since healed. Bruises, scratches, split lip and black eye had all healed; his body had harbored no explicit evidence of what he had endured. And exactly what Adam had endured was still a mystery. One which weighed on all of them, a situation that showed no indications of ever changing.

"Ben?" Martin prompted.

"He was exhausted, beaten, dehydrated and starved," Ben said, unknowingly repeating his words from only moments ago.

"So you just said, but I'm taking about what the Eastgate doctor said. What he found when examining your son."

Ben hesitated. What had the Eastgate doctor found? It was such an obvious question to ask. One which, he suddenly realized, he couldn't provide an answer to.

Though he had been there when the doctor returned to examine Adam, neither Ben nor Adam had been awake. Adam had been rendered unconscious by medication and Ben had finally given into his own exhaustion. Both had slept through the doctor's subsequent visit and departure. It was Hoss who had assisted the man. Hoss who saw the state of his brother in appalling detail, helping the doctor clean and treat his brother's wounds. It was Hoss who had sat vigil at Adam's bedside, protecting him until Ben finally awoke. And it was Hoss who, when asked by Ben if there was anything in particular he should know about, hadn't immediately answered or looked at his father when he replied. In fact, his gaze had been locked on the floor when he finally passed on the Eastgate Doctor's advice.

_We need keep quiet about how we found him, what he said or did, _Hoss had said_. He said certain experiences, certain injuries, have a way of eating away at a man if too many people are privy to them, especially his pride._

"Who was the dead man you found him with?" Martin asked, seemingly deciding his previous question was destined to remain unanswered.

"Peter Kane," Ben said. His shame was renewed as he was unable to stop himself from disclosing the man's name. He had been so good at following the Eastgate doctor's until today. There was something about today, about the worry, nagging and bothersome, that refused to be calmed. "He was an evil man by the local's account. Though they didn't go into specifics with me, both the doctor and the sheriff made certain I knew he was a troublesome man. The sheriff said Kane was a devil, that he had a way of influencing people, winding them up to hurt each other or themselves. The sheriff couldn't hold him accountable for anything he had done in the town, so he exiled him from it instead."

"A man named Kane exiled to the desert," Martin said thoughtfully. "That sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it?"

Ben didn't need to be reminded of what the Peter Kane of his dreams had been certain he knew. It did sound like an excerpt from the Bible, something that with the details of Adam's own disobedience when choosing to venture into the desert alone, he was not eager to dwell on. Kane had likened Adam's disobedience to sin; he had implied that, because Adam had disregarded his father's instruction, he deserved what he had found.

"I take it Adam came across this Kane after he was robbed," Martin said.

Ben was acutely aware that this was a presumed fact he had no verification of. "I assume," he said.

"And you have no idea as to what took place out there between the two?"

"No. Adam was not much for talking after he was found, and now... well, you know he's given up talk completely."

Nodding, Martin crossed his arms, seemingly waiting for Ben to continue.

Finally managing to silence his treacherous words, Ben didn't continue. He hadn't come to town to talk to the doctor. He hadn't intended on sharing what he had. "Well," he said, expectantly dreading Martin's eventual assessment of what he'd been told. It was foolhardy not to expect him to voice his clinical opinion on the events Adam had endured. Ben had told himself that he wasn't seeking such a thing from the doctor, but only now did he realize that maybe—subconsciously—he was.

"Well, what?" Martin asked.

"What do you think?"

"I think, it sounds like Adam was failed by the very law he holds in such high esteem. That sheriff ought to be ashamed of himself for sending a dangerous man into the wilderness so that he could be stumbled upon by someone who was unknowing of his capabilities."

"And?"

"And what?" Martin asked evenly. "Ben just what exactly is it that you expect me to say?"

"I expect you to express your _educated _opinion on the matter," Ben said tersely. "I expect you to tell me what to _do_."

"Oh, Ben," Martin groaned, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "It isn't for me to tell you what to do—not that I would entertain doing so under normal circumstances. God help the man who thinks he can tell Ben Cartwright what to do with one of his sons. Adam isn't terminal; he isn't suffering from something I can ease or cure. It isn't his body that's sick; it's his mind. I know a great deal about healing bodies and not nearly enough about healing minds."

"Then what good are you?" Ben asked.

Shaking his head, Martin's smile disappeared as he cast Ben a serious look. "As a doctor, I am plenty good, and for the record, as a father, so are you. You're doing well, my friend. Is that what you need to hear? You have weathered every storm that boy has thrown at you, and you will continue to do so, because that is what you always do. Adam is fortunate to have you as a father; there are a great many men who wouldn't be willing to give their sons what you offer so freely to yours."

"Which is what?"

"Your support, acceptance, and absolute love. You may never know what happened to Adam in the desert, Ben. He may never decide to talk again. Like I've told you before, what he experienced may have left him permanently changed, and if he is then I have ample faith in you, as a man and a father, to successfully guide him through life. Don't make the mistake of comparing the Adam of the present or future on who he was in the past. Love and support him, and learn to accept what you can't change."

Ben thought the advice a little too simplistic. Easily given by an outsider but much more difficult to enact and implement by members of his family.

"I have faith this afternoon with be a pleasant one for your sons," Martin said. "I hope Adam's excursion will be successful and that it will become the first of many."

Nodding, Ben hoped the doctor was right about the afternoon, Adam, and himself.

Xx

The sun was hanging low in the horizon when Ben arrived home.

The ride from the Virginia City had seemed to pass quickly; his visit with Doc Martin had given him a lot to think about. He had anticipated Adam and Hoss would have returned home long before he arrived. But leading Buck into the barn to stable him for the evening, he was surprised to find his sons' horses still absent. He was immediately worried, then thinking of the favorability of such thing he dismissed it. The trip to the timber camp must have been a successful venture for Adam after all. What other explanation could there possibly be for his sons not yet returning home?

He couldn't help a smile as he took care of his horse, a pleased expression that only intensified as he finally heard the telltale sound of hooves approaching the barn. Adam and Hoss had finally returned.

Leaving Buck in his stall, Ben left the barn to greet his sons. He was eager to set eyes on Adam again and to hear from Hoss the details of their successful outing. Stepping outside of the door, he hesitated in place, his smile vanishing as his heartbeat began to quicken, pounding relentlessly in his chest as his worry was renewed.

Riding into the yard, Hoss was alone. "I'm sorry, Pa," he said, his expression pained. "Dadburn it, I am _so_ sorry. You knew it was gonna be too much for Adam and I just had to push and push."

"What are you talking about?" Ben asked, his throat tightening. Hoss and Chubb were alone; Adam and Sport were nowhere to be seen.

"I thought he could handle it. I really thought he could."

"What happened?" Ben demanded. "Hoss, where is your brother?"

"I'm sorry, Pa. Adam took off. He got spooked and he fled into the mountains outside the timber camp. Pa, I _swear_, I was looking after him, watchin' him real close like you said. Adam was there one moment and the next he was just... gone."

"He took off by _himself_?"

The very notion didn't feel right. Adam couldn't tolerate being alone, why would he run? Where would he go?

"On foot," Hoss said gravely. "Joe and some of the men are out searching. It'll be dark soon. Those men are rough, Pa, and they're strangers to Adam. I think it'll be best if you're with them when he's finally found."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

The search for Adam seemed a nightmarish task destined to never end.

Darkness had come, bringing a harsh drop in temperature and inviting nocturnal predators to commence stalking prey as they hunted the land. Without his horse or a gun, Adam was alone and drastically unprepared to protect himself against wild animals or the elements. Survival in his current predicament seemed dismal; Ben's worry for his eldest son was abounding.

The mountain on the west side of the timber camp where Adam had allegedly run was foreboding. His supposed place of entry was steep and protected by a thicket of trees. The mountain itself was a jagged incline that extended for miles; its peak was so tall and monstrous it seemed to creep into the heavens. Boulders and trees—both standing and fallen—lined the land, making travel difficult, dangerous and harrowing at best.

Ben wondered why Adam would have sought the protection of the mountain at all. What had happened? What had he seen or felt that prompted him to run into such rugged terrain? It was a glaring question—yet another that seemed destined to remain without an answer. Joe didn't know because he hadn't seen his brother leave, and Hoss, though watching Adam carefully, hadn't seen him go either.

Engaged in a conversation, both younger brothers had stood a far distance from the workers and a few short paces from their eldest brother. Adam had been visibly uncomfortable when faced with the task of approaching any of the men, something Hoss had said he made quick note of and adjusted plans accordingly. He had waived Joe over, removing him from the larger group and adding him theirs. Adam had seemed accepting of that; he had seemed relieved and slightly less uncomfortable with both brothers in his company.

According to Hoss, it was one of the hired men who had watched Adam run towards the mountain and disappear into the trees. It was he who first alerted Hoss and Joe—though it wasn't worry for Adam rather confusion which had prompted the hand to do such a thing. No one dared entered the mountain's rugged landscape without particular reason to do so. Neither Hoss nor Joe nor Ben could understand why Adam would have decided to do such a thing. Nothing in recent history would have argued that Adam was capable or eager to be in alone in such surroundings.

Upon realizing Adam was missing, Hoss and Joe burst up the mountain only to find he was nowhere to be seen. It was a startling realization, worrisome and curious. Once again, Adam was just gone. There was no trail to follow, no disrupted plants or rocks, no physical evidence on the terrain that suggested he had set foot on it at all. Hoss and Joe where baffled, as was Ben when Hoss recounted these events.

When he first arrived at the timber camp, Ben was appalled to find Joe and the hired hands back from their search. Joe was aggressively arguing with one of the men—a man who, when coming upon him, Ben didn't recognize and was sure he had never met.

"You're lyin', Frank!" Joe shouted, holding an accusing finger inches away from the man's weathered face.

"I ain't," Frank said, calmly standing his ground. "It happened just the way I told ya."

"My brother didn't climb that mountain!" Joe insisted. "If he did we woulda found him by now! We would have seen him when we looked! He ain't up there!"

"I stand by my actions and words," Frank said. "I saw what I saw."

Pushing Joe's finger out of his face, he took a step forward, his chest lingering next to Joe's. He was a rough man, at least twice Adam's age. His face was tanned and wrinkled; his graying hair was short beneath his hat; and his beard was long. He wasn't much taller than Joe, but what he lacked in height he made up for with hostility. He would be a formidable opponent in a brawl—if their conversation was allowed to devolve further.

Gripping his son's upper-arm, Ben pulled Joe a few paces away from Frank. "What's going on here?" he demanded. His grip remained tight on his son's arm as he looked between the pair. "Why are you standing here arguing instead of looking for Adam?"

Shrugging indifferently, Frank remained unaffected by his harsh words and stare. "Sorry, Mister Cartwright," he said. "I didn't mean to argue with your boy; it's just that he don't seem eager to believe the truth."

"Which is what?" Ben asked.

"Adam went up the mountain," Frank said. "I watched him go. Ain't my problem if Joe don't want to believe me."

"You're lying!" Joe shouted. "There's no proof he went up there! If he's not up there then that means he's somewhere else!" Hands clenched into tight fists, he took a step forward, trying and failing to lunge at Frank as his father's grip did not faulter. Ben held him in place, preventing the threatening motion. Writhing beneath his father's firm grip, he cast Frank a furious look. "Tell me where my brother really went!" he demanded. "Tell me now!"

"_Joe_," Ben chastised.

"I already did," Frank said evenly. "Just because you don't want to hear what I'm saying', just because you can't find your brother, that don't make what happened any less true."

"What did happen?" Ben asked impatiently.

Shoulders sinking, Joe's anger vanished. "He was right there, Pa," he said, fear and guilt shining in his emerald eyes as he looked at Ben and repeated what Hoss had already shared. "Adam was right next to me and Hoss one second and the next he was just _gone_. I don't know what happened. How he could disappear like that without either of us seeing or hearing him go."

"He went up the mountain," Frank said. "Like I told you."

"You saw him go?" Ben asked, looking at Frank skeptically. He didn't recognize this man; he didn't know if Frank had a reputation of truth-telling or penchant for telling lies. He was unsure if he should mirror Joe's doubt or trust what was being said. He had no real reason to doubt Frank or believe him. It was an awful predicament, one which was only intensifying his worry and wasting precious time.

"I did," Frank said.

"How did Adam leave?" Ben probed. "Tell me what you already told my sons."

"Well," Frank sighed. "Joe and Hoss and Adam were over there." He nodded, indicating at the area just before the base of the steep mountain. "Hoss and Joe were standing next to each other; Adam was behind them. They were talkin' and he was just standing there. He looked nervous, kept looking over his shoulder staring at that mountain. In fact, that's what made me take note of him in the first place. Why I started watching him so closely. It was weird, the way he was looking at it, like somebody or something was there. I didn't see nobody, but I think maybe he did."

"That ain't true," Joe said. "There wasn't anybody there. We would have heard them if there had been. The crest of the mountain is steep, covered with rocks and deadfall. There would have been some kind of indication, some kind of noise or rustling to let us know somebody was there."

"Are you tellin' this story, or am I?" Frank frowned at Joe.

"So, you admit it's a story," Joe countered. His annoyance, frustration, and worry were clear. "Not the truth. We searched that area. My brother didn't go up there. We would have seen proof of it if he did. So, where did he really go, Frank? And why are you lying about it?"

"Joe, let the man finish," Ben instructed firmly. Though he shared Joe's skepticism, he wanted to hear the rest. There was nothing else to go on. No other clues to follow in order to find his missing son.

Looking at the mountain, he found Hoss emerging from the location where Adam had supposedly disappeared. Upon returning to the camp, Hoss had taken a few of the men and ventured up its steep thickness for another look. Eyes locking on his middle son's, Ben was overcome by nervousness as Hoss pursed his lips and shook his head forlornly. It had been another unfruitful search.

"Not a lot more to tell. Adam went up the mountain," Frank said. "He had the strangest look on his face when he did. One second, he was standing behind the two of you, looking between the mountain and the camp. Then the next, his lips curled into a…" He paused, shaking his head as he expelled a deep breath, his face settling into an expression of discomfort. "Well…" he continued, seemingly unsettled by what he intended to say. "You see, he got the oddest look his face, like, nothin' I'd ever seen before. It made me uncomfortable, if I'm being honest. I was standing a fare distance from him, but he caught my gaze, looked me right in the eye. His eyes, they were _gleaming_, glistening with something akin to evil. When he smirked at me, it made me feel an awful kind of way. It was so powerful that I had to look away, and when I looked back, I watched him begin to climb that mountain and disappear into the trees."

"You're a liar," Joe said again. "My brother wouldn't look at you, and he sure as hell wouldn't smirk."

"I stand with my little brother on that one," Hoss said as he stood beside his father. "I don't believe my older brother would look at you in such a way, especially now. Besides, there ain't no proof Adam went up there, Frank. No indication in the deadfall that somebody went barreling through it. No tracks at all."

"I saw what I saw." Frank shrugged. "Like I said, it ain't my problem if you don't want to believe it."

Ben wanted to say it wasn't Frank's problem if they didn't believe his account, but it would be his problem if he lied about what he saw—or didn't see. A part of him wanted to agree with Joe and demand Frank admit to his lies and tell the truth. But an even larger part of himself was unnerved by the man's description of Adam. He was ashamed to admit where his mind had gone when Frank described Adam's eyes and smirk; he was guilt-ridden by how alike the description of his son had seemed to the Kane of his dreams.

It was Kane's eyes that shined with pure evil; it was he who often displayed a smile so vile it caused a chill to crawl up Ben's spine and made his stomach turn. He didn't like how Kane looked at him in his dreams; he couldn't tolerate the trepidation born from being the extended focus of the man's lingering gaze.

_Do you really think you can save him?_

Ben shook his head as Kane's words rose from his memory. It didn't work; if anything, the motion only seemed to dislodge more of Kane's haunting questions.

_What happened in the desert, Mister Cartwright?_

_What did he do to me? What did I do to him?_

_Was I a man? Was I a demon? Or was I a devil in disguise?_

_How do you save your son from the devil, Mister Cartwright?_

"Pa," Hoss said, his face contorting with worry. "What do you think we ought to do? Even if Adam didn't go up that mountain, he did go somewhere."

"What do we do, Pa?" Joe asked anxiously.

Glancing between his sons, Ben was overcome by how similar this situation felt to one they had already endured. They had once searched the desert for Adam and now they would search the mountains. They would look for as long as they needed to; they would travel every inch of the land if necessary. They would do whatever it took to bring Adam home.

Their search separated the family further. They composed three small groups each led by a Cartwright in the hope that Adam would have a familiar and trusted face to focus upon when he was finally found. Their respective searches scattered them and took Ben further away from the mountain Adam may or may not have climbed, toward flatter earth more reminiscent of the desert he had once searched.

He had an overwhelming need to examine cliffs; it was an unignorable notion that led him and the few men who had accompanied him to the Eagle's Nest. Steep, jagged, and tall, it was the most formidable cliff he knew of on his property; knowledge of it coupled with the haunting details of his dreams gave birth to a foreboding fear so powerful it refused to be ignored. He had been dreaming of Adam and cliffs for months now, the horrifying memories of which unearthed yet another thing Kane had said.

_What's the point of being gifted dreams if you aren't going to heed their warnings? What is the point of knowing something bad is on the horizon if you don't do anything to stop it?_

Both questions echoed relentlessly through Ben's mind as he traveled the distance between the timber camp and Eagle's Nest, overwhelming any other thought he could conceive of and distracting him from anything the men surrounding him said.

It was Frank's low voice that eventually distracted Ben from his tortuous thoughts; it was the man's genuine curiosity made obvious in his tone that was enough to allow Ben to his momentarily ignore his fear in exchange for a surge of protective anger. He had grown weary of tolerating the curiosity of others where his eldest son was concerned.

"Do you really think your son coulda made it this far?" Frank asked. "If he started out in the mountains, it seems nothing short of impossible that he would turn up out here."

Ignoring the man's words, Ben kept his attention focused on the task at hand. Guided by the light of a half moon, he could see Eagle's Nest standing tall in the distant horizon. Its jagged outline was illuminated by the moonlight shining brightly among the cascading stars. Stomach turning, he realized he was both dreading and anxious to reach the landmark. He wanted so badly to locate his missing son, but he hoped Adam would not be found here.

"It don't make sense to me," Frank said, lowering his voice further. "There ain't no way your son could travel this distance in the time he had. He won't be here. This is a wasted trip."

Silently, Ben prayed Frank was right.

"Of course," Frank continued, "none of this really makes sense to me, not to say that's a notable thing because it is not. There are a great many things in this life that don't make sense to me. I am not the most intelligent of men but I am an honest one, no matter what others may say or think."

Ben thought this statement to be a veiled reference of Joe's previous accusation and it made him liken the steepness of the cliff in the distance to the mountainside Frank claimed Adam had climbed. It was impossible to ignore how both notions seemed unlikely, preposterous in similar ways. The distance between Eagle's Nest and the timber camp was too vast to travel by foot in the time that had passed since his son had disappeared; the thought of Adam venturing anywhere on his own was an impractical one. Adam hadn't wanted to leave home that morning; he had been nearly too afraid to decide who he wanted to accompany and where.

How could a day which had begun like that end like this? How could Adam have been so anxious and fearful when faced with making a simple decision and then suddenly decide to embark into the wilderness alone?

Perhaps it was Adam's fearful nature and anxious demeanor that had prompted him to run. Maybe he had seen or heard and become so startled by something he felt as though he had no other choice but to flee.

"I stand by my actions and words," Frank said. "And for what it is worth, I am saddened by the changes in Adam's demeanor."

Startled, Ben cast Frank a wary look. He wondered what memories of the old Adam the hand had to compare this changed version of Adam against. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

"He's different than he was. He ain't the same. The other men at the camp, they didn't notice him the way I did. Adam looked skittish, frightened and lost when he and his brother first arrived. I think the crowd of us bothered him. He didn't come talk to me the way I expected him to."

"What would make you expect such a thing?"

"I stand by my actions and words." Frank shrugged as though the repeated statement should have more than answered the question.

It didn't. If anything, it only ignited Ben's anger.

"Those were Adam's words," Frank explained. "His assessment of my character, not mine. Although, in the time that has passed between when he first spoke them to me and today, I have come to believe in their truth. It was Adam who hired me, Mister Cartwright. He came upon me one night when I was drowning my sorrows at the saloon, mourning a life of a woman that God had saw fit to take from me. It was Adam who found me then. We had a long conversation and he told me what he thought about me. He said I was honest, that I stand by my actions and words, then he took a chance on me and gave me a job at the camp, and that is the very thing that has led me to search for him beside you tonight."

"That sounds like something he would do," Ben said, his anger dissipating as quickly as it overtook him. Frank's experience of Adam's kindness was an occurrence not unique to him. Endlessly intuitive, Adam had always seemed to collect people. He advocated for underdogs and tried to help seemingly lost souls and causes in whatever way he could.

"He saved me from myself that day," Frank said after a few moments had passed. "It is a favor I would like to be able to return."

Arriving at Eagle's Nest, they stopped their horses at the bottom of the cliff amongst the fallen rocks nestled upon where the land began to slope. Gazing up at the peak, Ben was overcome by an odd combination of relief and concern. The cliff was empty; Adam was nowhere to be seen.

"Did Adam really look you in the eye today?" Ben asked, the question surprising even himself.

Did Adam really do that? Always overcome by apprehension when presented with strangers, was he still capable of such cordial simplicities? Though Frank wasn't a stranger if the details of how he was hired were to be believed, so maybe that was what made him different in Adam's eyes.

_Adam's eyes_, Ben thought, briefly closing his own.

Had Adam's eyes really glistened with evil? And had Frank become uncomfortable beneath his gaze? Just as Ben had when Kane looked upon him on his dreams?

"He did," Frank said.

"Did he really smirk at you?"

"He did."

"And you stand by your actions and words?"

"I do. He saw something up that mountain, Mister Cartwright. He followed something the rest of us couldn't see into the darkness of those trees, of that I am sure. I would be obliged if you allowed me to stay with you until Adam is found. Like I said before, I have a favor to return."

Ben nodded. He wouldn't refuse the help, not tonight, not as long as his son was still missing. Turning in his saddle, he cast his gaze on the other hands who had accompanied them to the peak. They were scattered among the landscape a short distance away, their eyes squinting through the darkness as they searched for any sign of Adam. He found himself grateful for Frank's kindness, the attention he had paid to Adam when he and Hoss arrived at the timber camp and his determination to find him now.

"What do you think?" Frank asked. "Where do you wanna go next?"

Where would Adam go? Ben thought worriedly. If he didn't like to be alone and he found darkness intolerable, if he ascended the bottom of the mountain only to change his mind and path and detour someplace else. If he wasn't standing on top of the cliff then where was he? Where did he go? And what did he do once he arrived?

"I think we oughta search the lake," Frank said thoughtfully.

Ben snorted. If Adam turning up at Eagle's Nest was improbable then finding him at Lake Tahoe at this hour seemed nearly impossible. The distance between where Adam had begun and the body of water was possible on foot, but the direction of travel would have brought him across the path of the search parties long before now. He couldn't have gone there unseen, and even if he had, he wouldn't have remained unseen for very long as the lake was where Joe had led his group to search.

"I got a feelin' about Tahoe," Frank said. "I don't know why but I do."

"Alright," Ben conceded easily. He was not one to deny the pull of intuitive feelings—at least not anymore.

Xx

They crossed paths with Hoss and his search party on the way to Lake Tahoe. The sudden hunch about the body of water was one Frank and Ben's middle son shared.

"I know it don't make sense," Hoss said. Sitting upon Chubb, he shook his head in a bewildered manner. "If Adam's there, then I'll be dadburned as to how he made it without being seen, or how he wasn't found before now, because Joe and his group headed that direction hours ago."

"You just have a feeling about it," Ben said flatly, glancing back at Frank through the corner of his eyes.

"Yeah," Hoss said. He appeared visibly grateful his father understood immaterial motivations. "I think Adam's there, Pa. Don't ask me how or why, but I think that's where we'll find him." He glanced at the group of men around them, then looked at his father and lowered his voice. "I think maybe we oughta search with a smaller group too. I'd rather not overwhelm Adam with a bunch of unfamiliar faces when we do find him. There ain't no tellin' how he'd react to that. There ain't no tellin' a lot of things right now."

Ben understood what Hoss had left unsaid. They were both worried about the state in which Adam would be found, what he would do if propelled into a group of strangers or what kind things—what kind of stories—the hands would share later about Adam. There were enough nasty rumors floating around town—talk that suggested Adam's mental capabilities had been impacted, that he had become wildly unhinged—Ben was not eager to substantiate any of them. He thought about the behavior Adam had displayed at home, the occasion when he was found unresponsive in his room, and looking at Hoss, he knew his son was recalling it too. If it happened before it could happen again, and neither Ben nor Hoss were eager to subject Adam an audience.

But what if Adam wasn't at the lake? What if they sent the search party in an opposite direction and they found him instead? What if he was found by a group of strange men without a single member of his family to insulate, protect and reassure him? There was no telling what Adam would do, but Ben was certain he would no longer be able to protect his son's pride.

"He's there, Pa," Hoss said, seemingly understanding Ben's hesitation. "I'm sure if it."

Ben nodded. He wasn't certain but his son was and that would have to be enough for now. "Hoss and I will go alone," he said, projecting the firm order toward the group. Adam's confusion was a family matter and that was how it remain. "The rest of you circle back to the timber camp, see if you can hook up Joe."

All of the men looked agreeable, save for Frank who frowned. Directing his horse to stand beside Buck, he looked at Ben and opened his mouth to object.

"You can repay my son's favor another day," Ben said curtly. "You'll have to leave it be for now."

"Favor?" Hoss asked, his nose scrunched with confusion.

Ben dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "Let's go find your brother," he said. "And bring him home."

Xx

Arriving at Lake Tahoe, their search for Adam came to a sudden end.

A haphazard trail of Adam's discarded clothes, hat, jacket, boots, shirt, belt, and, pants led Ben to a shallow shoreline. He wasn't shocked his son had removed his clothes; it had happened before, leaving him half expecting such a thing, though it didn't make the situation any less worrisome or dire. The air night was bitter and numbing, much too cold to be faced without any clothes.

Eyes squinting through the darkness, casting his gaze on the large, reflective body of water, it was Hoss who saw Adam first.

"Oh, dear God in heaven," he said, expelling the shocked words beneath his breath as he lifted his arm and pointed an index finger at the lake. "_Pa_," he said his voice becoming frantic and insistent. "Adam's in the water, Pa!"

Locking his gaze on a foreign mound in the distance, Ben's stomach dropped. Adam was in the water, not floating, swimming or drowned, but sitting in the shallows, his knees pulled tight to his chest.

"Adam!" Ben yelled rushing into the lake to retrieve his son.

The water was frigid and jolting. A chill ran up his spine as his boots filled with water, leaving his skin covered in goose flesh. Though if either reaction was due to the coldness of the water or finding his son in such odd conditions, Ben didn't know.

How had Adam gotten here? How had he traveled the distance between the timber camp and the lake without coming across someone who was looking for him? It simply wasn't plausible he could do so without being seen. It should have been impossible, but somehow it was, because Adam was here, sitting naked in the waters of Lake Tahoe, his stare vacant, his lips and skin a horrifying shade of blue.

Hands setting beneath Adam's armpits, Ben hoisted him up. Seemingly disinterested in standing or moving at all, Adam's legs remained limp and lifeless beneath his body. His skin was cold to the touch. Eager to remove him from the water, Ben hoisted his son high and carried him to shore. Adam was lighter than he should have been; his legs and torso felt sparse and bone-filled, and, despite being loose, dead weight in his arms, Ben carried him with appalling ease.

In the moment, he realized Adam was too thin and too cold. They needed to take him home quickly, warm him up, view his body under light and assess any damage that had been done. In the best of circumstances, he would try to get Adam to eat too. This was not the best of circumstances; however, it was teetering between bad and worse.

Having retrieved his brother's clothes, Hoss was waiting on shore. He helped his father redress his brother, wiping his frigid skin with a rolled blanket he had untied from the back of his saddle. When he was dressed, they wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and Hoss scooped Adam up, holding him protectively to his chest.

Ben half expected Adam to scream or cry or even laugh maniacally as he had in the desert. But the sound of his teeth chattering behind his blue-tinged lips was the only sound Adam emitted. His eyes were glazed, narrow hazel pools which seemed to be looking at everything and nothing at the same time. He didn't acknowledge his father or brother; he didn't show any signs of registering their presence at all.

Traveling home, Hoss held Adam as he had when they found in the desert. It was an easier task this time, as Adam didn't fight squirm in his brother's tight hold.

Ben found himself wishing that this Adam the who they had rescued from water could have been a bit more like the one they found in the desert, because at least that one had spoken. At least that one had fought and yelled, laughed and cried. It was a horrible thing to hope for as a father, to wish for a son display one set of crazed behaviors over another; Ben felt his guilt renewed.

They came across Joe after a while. Traveling the trail in the opposite direction, he was on his way to join the search at the lake. He nodded at Ben, then Hoss, and as his gaze froze on Adam's still form, he cringed sadly, his jaw tightening as he fought tears. It was difficult for Joe to see his oldest brother in such disarray; it was painful for all of them to be assaulted with glaring, irrefutable proof of how much Adam had truly changed.

On the ride home, none of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Upon their return to the ranch house, Ben ordered Joe to fetch the doctor and Hop Sing to fill the bath.

Desperate to be of some use, Joe did what he was told without comment or complaint, and he Hoss and Ben to carefully care for Adam. Even in spite of their efforts, and the startling, stinging he had to have felt when his cold body was immersed in the pool of hot water, Adam remained silent. His eyes were vacant and glazed. His body was lax, his posture loose; even his very bones seemed to be weak, unable or unwilling to support his weight. Hoss had to hold his older brother's torso upright in the bath; sitting on the exterior of the tub behind him, he threaded his hands beneath Adam's armpits, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep his head above the water.

"He's too skinny, Pa," Hoss said, holding on to Adam so gently it as though he thought he could break. "Oh, lord, how couldn't we have known he was this bad?"

Shaking his head, Ben couldn't conceive of a reasonable explain of how or why the glaring detail had been missed. It didn't seem acceptable for such a dangerous thing to have gone unknown. "It isn't your fault," he said.

Wash rag covering his palm, his hand moved idly over his Adam's body, cleaning the layer of dirt and grim the afternoon had left behind. Deep, swollen and red, there were curious scratches on Adam's hands and forearms, wounds which could have come from running through a thicket of trees at top speed. Curiously, his face and neck were unblemished and his clothes showed no evidence of such wear.

Ben grasped his son's hands and feet one at a time, counting his fingers and toes before moving each digit, carefully ensuring the range of motion was intact. Everything seemed to be in order, and when Adam's teeth finally stopped chattering and his skin transformed from a sickly blue hue to a reassuring shade of pink, he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

The feeling was short lived. Chased away by sadness as Adam was lifted from the bath a little too easily. He was incredibly thin; any defined muscles or sparse fat had been eaten away, dissolved by his fierce determination not to eat. Ben longed to understand why Adam feel such a deep need to torture himself in this way. There had to be reason for it. For his vacant stare and listless state. For the extended silence of his voice. There had to be a reason, an action or a moment which could be gleaned and defined. Though Ben didn't know what had happened in the desert between Kane and Adam, he had known his son before the trip and he knew him after. Something had happened which caused things to devolve to this; something had been said or done to fundamentally change Adam, how he perceived the world around him and felt about himself.

Sitting behind Adam on the bed, Hoss held his brother upright as Ben negotiated his eldest son's body unto long underwear. A nightshirt followed, before Hoss moved and the pair tucked Adam tightly beneath a thick quilt. Ben lingered at the bedside as Hoss stood and began moving absently around the room.

Ben's fingers slowly stroked Adam's wet hair as the tip of Hoss's own hovered over his brother's books, laying sprawled and abandoned on top of the grafting desk. The cabinet had been a quick addition to the bedroom after Adam's return from college. He had said—no, had insisted—upon having a such a desk in his room. He needed somewhere quiet to work; someplace solitary and private to think and draft his plans before they could be shared. He always had been so protective of his thoughts and dreams, never wanting to share them until he felt the timing was right.

Did Adam consider the future at all anymore? Was he even capable of such things?

"These books don't see much use these days," Hoss said quietly, his voice tight with emotion. "Sometimes I wonder if they'll ever see any use again. I'm sorry, Pa. I'm responsible for what happened today. You tried to allow Adam to stay home; I was the one intent on not listening. I didn't listen and I pushed you both. I pushed you to make him chose; I pushed him to go when you knew he wasn't ready."

"It's alright," Ben said. "None of what happened today is your fault."

"But it is, because I had to push until Adam accompanied me. I thought a ride might do him good. I thought if he went back to the timber camp, looked upon what he had once been in charge of and the men he had hired, that it would awaken something in him and he would somehow become my older brother again. It awakened something in him alright," Hoss snorted sadly. Inhaling a deep breath, he pulled his hand away from the books and hung it loosely at his side. "I want you to know I'm through pushing where Adam's concerned. I will follow whatever set of rules you think appropriate and I will make sure Joe follows them, too. You tell us what to do, Pa, and we'll do it."

"Shhh," Ben chastised. Looking at Hoss, he nodded at Adam. "Your brother is right here and able to hear you."

Eyes gleaming with sadness, Hoss didn't answer at first. "No, Pa," he said. "I don't believe he can. His body is with us but his mind is... elsewhere. If you can't see that then I reckon you're as confused as he is. The rules got to be changed, Pa. We got to stop pretending like Adam ain't sick. We got to stop hoping he's gonna be like he was."

"Don't you hope for such a thing?"

"Of course, I hope for it, and I pray for it, too but that don't mean it'll ever happen. I learned a long time ago there are just some prayers God don't see fit to answer and it's up the us to figure a way to live without."

Ben was appalled. "You're saying God wants us to find a way to live without your brother?"

"No. I'm saying we need to find a way to live _with_ him. It's been months. We need to stop expecting him to get better. We need to find a way to stop letting the old Adam cloud the person he's become. He's not gonna be the same as he was, something we can't begin to see clearly because we're holding on so tightly to who he was. It ain't fair to him. We're holding on to the Adam of the past so tightly that the Adam of right now is slipping through our grasp."

"No." Ben viciously shook his head. He wouldn't do that; he couldn't do that. He had told Adam he could hold on to him; he had promised he wouldn't let go "I can't believe you would even suggest such a thing. I can't believe— "

"If Adam where capable of conversation, he would tell you the same. Think about it. You know he would. He's spent his whole life challenging your firmly held opinions; often times he would be the one who convinced you to change your mind or action when a situation demanded such a thing. This situation demands change. If Adam can't make his own decisions, ain't it our job as his family to make sure he's taken care of and safe? I just want him to be safe. I want to stop asking things of him that he can't give. He tried today and it was too much, but at least now we know where things stand."

"Where do you think things stand?"

"Now we know what he's capable of and what he ain't, what we can expect from him and what we can't. Something happened in the desert," Hoss said, repeating his father's most tortuous thoughts. "And it changed him. Don't you think it's time we change too?"

Looking at Adam, Ben found him asleep. He couldn't help wondering how long his son's peace would last tonight before his slumber became ravaged by nightmares. Something had happened in the desert, something horribly bad—of that they were certain, but they had no inclination of what. Or Ben had no inclination of what rather, because he hadn't been with Adam when the Eastgate doctor examined his body and cleaned his wounds.

But Hoss had been there. Did he know something his father didn't? Was that the reason for his opinion now? Was Hoss privy to what was causing Adam so much emotional pain?

"What did the doctor find?" Ben asked, the insistent question escaping him with no predictability or thought.

Had there been something else to find? An injury that would explain everything, gracefully allowing him to finally know what to do. Adam had been beaten, worked to the bone, seemingly tortured, and starved. Had he endured something else? Had there been some other injury which explained all this?

"What?" Hoss asked. "Doc ain't been here yet."

"What did the Eastgate doctor find?"

Face contorting oddly, Hoss fixed his gaze on the floorboards and shrugged.

It was his son's reaction that truly gave birth to Ben's fear and it sat in the bottom of his stomach like a boulder as he was reminded of the question he had been so careful not to voice. It had always been there, lingering between them unasked. It had always been there, he supposed, with the way the doctor had looked at Adam and then spoke of protecting his pride, how could it not? He hadn't wanted to think about it, so he dismissed instead. If it was the brutal violation of Adam's body and pride which had led them to this moment in time, he hadn't wanted to know.

But that was before all this talk of the old Adam and the new, of letting go and moving on, of the changes in Adam which required them to change. Ben didn't want any of them to change any further. He wanted his son back. If there was a definable reason for Adam's new demeanor and behavior, then there had to be a way help him; there had to be a road on which they could travel that would finally bring the old Adam home.

"That man in the desert, did he...?" Ben couldn't bring himself to finish the question. An odd silence settled around them, stagnate and thick.

"Did the man in the desert what?" Hoss asked eventually. Looking at his father once more, there was a mixture of deep sadness and disappointment etched on his face. "You're the bravest man I know, Pa, at least have enough courage to be direct with your words."

Ben hesitated for a moment more, then opened his mouth and finally voiced his fear. "Did that man touch your brother inappropriately?" he asked quietly.

"No, Pa," Hoss said. "He did not. Believe me, the doctor was sure to check. Why are asking me something you already know? You're the one who insisted on caring for Adam back then. If he had such wounds then you would have seen them. Are you so eager for a something to blame Adam's behavior on that you would convince yourself to think the worst? Both about what happened to Adam and myself. Don't you think I would have told you if something like that had happened? Don't you think, given how hard things have been recently, I would have shared anything of importance I knew? I don't know any more than you do, and I'm sorry but I take offense to you thinkin' different."

Ben realized it had been such a foolish notion and a horrendous hope. So desperate for a reason and explanation to allow him to save the old Adam from the new, he had allowed himself to believe the worst. He had known it wasn't true—all along he had, because Hoss was right. He had cared for Adam after finding him in the desert, such intimate injuries wouldn't have gone unnoticed.

Sitting in the stillness of the room, he was reminded of the past, the words he had said to Adam after it had been discovered Ross Marquette had been violent toward his wife: _Sometimes people just change, Adam, and there are no discernible reasons why. _

Adam hadn't accepted the explanation then and Ben didn't want to accept it now. It was a foolish, dismissive, and wildly untrue. Quick, drastic change was always prompted by something; it never evolved out of nothing. With Ross they were never able to explain exactly what had happened, before or after his death. He had been normal and the suddenly he changed; for most, there had not been any evidence of what prompted his decline left to gather and interpret after he was gone.

"What difference does it all make, anyhow?" Hoss said quietly. "What that man did or didn't do. We all know he hurt Adam's body; it's what he did to his mind we have trouble bringing ourselves to accept. _God-damn_ that man. I ain't never hated anyone in life the way I hate that dead man. I hope the devil's havin' fun with him. I hope he is _burning_... I hope his very soul is consumed by fire for what he did to Adam, for what his actions made of my brother. He took Adam away from us. He shattered his mind." Brown knitting, his face contorted painfully, his eyes set on the books once more. "Adam always had such a _beautiful_ mind."

The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted his thoughts. Both Ben and Hoss looked to the doorway and found Little Joe standing just outside the room.

"Doc's here," Joe said quietly. He stood for a moment more, avoiding looking at of them, then turned around and left. His sound of his boots echoed the hallway as he descended the stairs.

Ben wondered how much of the conversation had been overheard. Then he wondered how he could have ever asked Hoss the question he had. The thought process that had once been born from doubt, uncertainty, and intense fear felt obscene now. It felt like a betrayal—towards both his older sons. How could he have ever doubted Hoss that way?

Hoss had always been so loyal to Adam. A trusted confidant and devout keeper of his brother's most delicate secrets. But unbeknownst to Adam, Hoss had always shared with Ben the secrets that were too dangerous to keep. He had always shared with their father things which were important to know.

"You stay with Adam," Hoss said, passing Doctor Martin on the way out of the room. "I wouldn't want you to think I was hiding anything from you this time around."

Wanting to follow his middle son and apologize, Ben couldn't seem to bring himself to stray from Adam's side.

Martin's examination was completed quickly and without complication. Adam made no effort to move beneath the doctor's hands, nor did he show any signs of being aware of his surroundings or himself.

Pulling the blankets back into place, Martin cast Ben a questioning glance. "I know you've been anxious about him becoming dependent on medicine but after such trying day. Do you oppose me giving Adam powder to induce sleep?"

Ben shook his head; he wouldn't dare oppose such a thing, not after today. Not anymore.

Retrieving a glass of water, Martin mixed the power in and handed it over to Ben to administer. "I left some more powder on the bureau if needed in the future. I assume you want to stay with him until he falls asleep."

Ben nodded, the glass feeling too cold and too familiar in hand. How many times since Adam had been found had he sat on the edge of the bed and forced him to drink? How many more times would the future demand the action be repeated?

"Stay with him for as long as you need to," Martin said. "I will wait for you downstairs. I was optimistic this afternoon; however, I do believe another conversation is in order now."

Martin closed the bedroom door behind him; Ben didn't know what the man was protecting them from. There were no secrets and little discretion needed where Adam and his immediate family was concerned. There were no secrets between Ben and Hoss and Joe; they all seemed to have the same information regarding how Adam had been lost and the found; it was Adam who seemed intent on not sharing the truth.

Leaning forward, he placed his hand behind his son's head, lifting it slightly as pressed the glass of water to Adam's lips.

Eyes staring absently, Adam didn't reject the glass. He opened his mouth slightly and in very small sips drank the liquid his father was enforcing. He couldn't stomach the whole glass—he never could. Still, he drank nearly half before Ben finally pulled it away and placed it on the side table. It was then he noticed Adam's gaze had shifted; his son was staring at him, his hazel eyes slightly more clear than they had been before.

"Where do you go?" Ben asked quietly. "When your body is still with us but your nowhere to be seen, where does your mind go for safety? And why do you need such a thing? I have protected you since the very day you were born. I know I wasn't with you in the desert, or when you met that man, but I am here now. Have you so little faith my ability to help you? Do you not believe I can protect you from whatever complications you are facing now?"

Adam didn't answer, not that Ben anticipated he would.

"Oh, I wish you would speak, Adam," he whispered forlornly. "I never once thought a day would dawn when you wouldn't be able to talk to me about your troubles, when I wouldn't be able to soothe whatever pain was consuming you. This is consuming you, son, there is no denying that. There's no denying I failed you either. I could go into great detail of the many ways I failed you when you were a boy, but that no longer seems to be important in light of all this. I failed you when I allowed you to accompany Joe on the drive to Eastgate, and I failed you today. Both occasions I had strong feelings something bad was going to happen, both of which I ignored. I am sorry for that. I am."

Watching Adam's eyelids begin to droop, he placed his hand on his son's chest and took solace in the feeling of his heart beating steadily again his palm. They found him; he was safe and Ben would do whatever was required to keep him that way.

"I'm done failing you, Adam," he vowed. "I will never give up on you and I will never let you go, but Hoss is right. The time has come for me to adjust my grip. I won't fail you again, and I refuse to lose you to this. I don't care what it takes to keep you with me. I will not lose you again."

He watched Adam sleep for a while, his hand not wavering from his son's chest. When he finally left, he purposely left the bedroom door open; he would no longer tolerate the door to be closed, hiding his son away where he could not be readily seen.

Xx

"You were wrong," Ben said sharply as he sat opposite of Doctor Martin at his desk. "My sons' afternoon excursion was not a successful one."

The room was mostly dark around them. Joe and Hoss had retired to their respective bedrooms; their conversation was not in danger of being overheard. Despite the fire burning in the fireplace, there was a chill in the night, a determined coldness which seemed intent on burrowing itself into Ben's bones. A thickness had settled in his throat, a tightness in his chest. It felt as though someone was cradling this heart in their hand, holding it gently only to sporadically begin to clench and squeeze, awakening a certain kind of pain which couldn't be helped or calmed. In his memories, he recalled this pain and easily defined it as grief; he was not certain; however, he had ever experienced this particular type of grief before—a deep, stinging sadness that seemed destined to never ebb or cease.

Reaching for the decanter of brandy on the desktop, he filled both of their glasses, then emptied his own, swallowing the dark liquid in one large gulp. He refilled the glass again; he would take his time with one and the next, nursing them until the pain in his heart finally began to ease.

"I'm sorry, Ben," Doc Martin said sadly, his glass remaining full and untouched before him. "I truly am."

Ben wished he could say the statement changed how he felt; he wished the apology, no matter how irrelevant, could heal his son or change Adam's behavior or suddenly make him talk. Oh, how he missed Adam's voice, deep and familiar, sometimes determined and sometimes soft. He missed his dry wit and sarcasm, the sound of his laughter. He missed their arguments, the heated debates they would sometimes have. He missed losing those arguments, easily beaten by the power of just one word. Papa.

"Adam's body will recover from his time in the lake," Martin said. "You and your boys retrieved him in time, warmed him appropriately. I am certain the coldness of the temperature he was exposed to will have no lasting damage on his extremities or skin."

This was not information Ben needed confirmation of.

"As you know, it is his mind which remains confused at best," Martin said.

Ben wanted to ask if this could be considered best than what was worse, but he didn't have to. He had enough memories of Ross Marquette to be reminded of how bad things could truly be. Adam may have been unresponsive and confused but he wasn't violent—at least not toward anyone other than himself. During his examination, Martin had noted the skin beneath Adam's fingernails, connecting it the odd scratches on Adam's arms and declaring the wounds self-inflicted.

"I'm certain I do not need to draw your attention to this glaring fact," Martin continued. "But I will anyhow. Adam is much too thin. You will need to watch him closely in the following days; if he develops a cold or a fever as a result of his actions today, I am not confident in his body's ability to fight it off."

"I know."

"You need to devise an alluring argument in order to convince him to eat. Do not intimidate him with large meals, push small portions of fatty foods often. Do not be taken by surprise if he became sick after eating; his stomach will almost certainly remain intolerable at first."

"He ate this morning," Ben said.

Nodding, Martin's expression remained serious. "That is favorable news."

"Hoss was able to convince of the importance of such a thing, for this morning at least."

"Do you believe Hoss could continue to be convincing on the subject?"

"I don't know," Ben admitted. "This morning was... out of the ordinary, as was the afternoon."

"Because it was Adam's first venture out since you brought him home."

Ben was momentarily taken aback by how readily Martin recalled his visit to Virginia City earlier in the afternoon. Had that really taken place today? It seemed so long ago now. Days at least, maybe even weeks. The search for his missing son had taken precedence over the other events of the day, rendering them useless somehow.

"Normally we don't push him the way we did today," Ben said absently. "Or at least Hoss doesn't."

He didn't know the usefulness of the detail or why he was offering it so easily. It felt good to talk. To seek the wisdom of someone else rather than depend on his own. He was out of his depth with this—something he was certain he had realized long ago and chosen to ignore.

"It was Hoss who insisted Adam eat?" Martin asked.

"It was Hoss who insisted he choose," Ben clarified. He wasn't placing blame upon any one for how the day had unfolded. He wouldn't dare; he had told Hoss it wasn't his fault and he meant it. He was merely recounting the details. "Either the timber camp or town, accompanied by he or I. I stood by Hoss's instance and required Adam to decide upon one option over another."

"You were worried about the decision he made," Martin reminded. "It was the reason for our earlier visit."

"I would have worried regardless. Whether Adam decided to accompany Hoss or I or even if he had taken the third option of remaining home. My worry for that boy is not determinate on any one choice or outcome." Ben sipped his brandy. "Or at least not of late," he qualified.

"Or ever. A father's worry never rests, or so I am told. Even so, I can clearly see how taxing recent days have been. Adam must improve from where he is now. His muteness and avoidance of people and places can be adapted to, the state of his body cannot. If you cannot coax him into maintaining his most basic of needs then maybe you ought to consider others who can. There are places meant for people like him. Where he can go— "

"I will not send my son away," Ben snapped. He had visions of the types of places being referred to and the horrors they contained. "I don't take kindly to the suggestion I abandon my son by sending him away to be dealt with by strangers, people who would lock him away in some room after taking away his clothes." Shaking his head, he snorted humorlessly. "Although he may prefer the latter over remaining dressed."

"I meant no disrespect. My only thought in making the suggestion was to magnify the seriousness of the current situation."

"It is plenty magnified. Believe me, I understand the seriousness, especially after today. Adam is my son, Paul, my flesh and blood. He is as familiar to me as the back of my hand, recent events and behavior notwithstanding. I am willing and able to take care of him whether or not he ever improves. Furthermore, he has brothers to look after him; it isn't as if he's alone."

"He is not, but that does not mean things can remain as they are. When Adam experienced his first non-responsive state, I was not completely certain it would happen again. However now that it has, I am confident it will occur again, especially if it has become a favored coping mechanism as I suspect it has."

"Coping mechanism?"

"A way for Adam to deal with his surroundings without having to deal with them. When faced with something he is unable to contend with, he chooses not to contend with it at all."

"He just... leaves," Ben said. "Physically he is present, mentally he is somewhere else entirely."

"His last spell lasted for days; it is important to note how long this one lasts and what prompts him to come out of it, if anything. A firm knowledge of the past will only help you better assist him in the future."

"Hoss said we ought to let go of the past," Ben said flatly. He did not know what response he was seeking by stating such a thing. "He said Adam has changed and it's time we did too."

Martin nodded. "That is wise."

"We've been so busy holding our breath, waiting and willing him to suddenly wake up and be who he once was that we've made no effort to adjust to who he's become. We—I—haven't been looking at the situation clearly."

He had been allowing guilt and fear cloud his judgment; had been too concerned with the past to give the present appropriate thought. He had been too haunted by bad dreams and bad feelings, the dread attached to all things he didn't know; these feelings had consumed him, rendering incapable of seeing and properly dealing with the situation at hand.

Hoss was right; he had been right this morning in forcing Adam try an excursion and he had been right after. They wouldn't have known then what they knew now if Adam hadn't gone to the timber camp. They wouldn't have been forced to see how bad things truly were and they wouldn't have been implored to change anything. They would have existed in some Godforsaken limbo forever, endlessly anticipating a day that would never come.

Adam wasn't going to get better, not like this. He couldn't as long as those around him remained intent on remaining as they were.

"What kind of adjustments do you propose?" Martin asked. "What are your plans to prevent further decline?"

Ben shook his head. He hadn't had time to consider options or form any plans. He could no longer allow his memories of the Adam of the past to affect his choices regarding the Adam of the present, and he could not allow his hopes for his son's future to do the same. He wanted him to get better but what did Adam want? What was he capable of achieving now that had become so changed?

"May I propose a few?" Martin asked.

Ben nodded.

"No more excursions," Martin said. "At least for the foreseeable future. Keep Adam home, where his environment is controlled and he is safe. Supervise him. Do not allow him to be alone, allotting him opportunities to harm himself."

"I do not believe Adam would do any real harm—"

"Ben," Martin interrupted seriously. "The scratches on his arms were self-inflicted. You found him sitting naked in the frigid lake waters. Do neither of those things occur to you as occasions your son meant to harm himself? And what about the time before this? When he experienced his prior unresponsive state, he rubbed his wrists and ankles raw. It may not seem like much now but these types of behaviors can escalate. I think it is appropriate at this time to liken his behavior to that of Ross Marquette."

Inhaling sharply, Ben finished his drink. He didn't need to be reminded of past. "Adam is nothing like Ross Marquette."

"I don't believe that. I hope you don't believe it either. Mental sickness is mental sickness, Ben; I don't believe there are such great distinctions to be made between its symptoms. You know, Adam came to me before Ross's death; he wanted to know what to do. He asked for help, said that somebody ought to be able to do something for Ross before it became too late."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"They were close like brothers. In fact, I recall a time when people used to call them twins. As adolescents they followed each other like shadows. If one was in trouble the other wasn't far behind. Adam is very sick boy, Ben. My best advice is for you to keep him very close. Do for him what we couldn't do for Ross."

"What exactly is that?" Ben asked. "What do you think should have been done for him?"

"I do believe we should have at least tried to save him from himself." Martin nodded. "I will call again in a few days to see how things progressing, or not progressing, I suppose. Send word if you need anything before then."

With that the doctor excused himself, leaving his drink untouched and Ben struggling to silence his thoughts.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Ben and Kane stood alone on the cliff's edge.

The air was thick with the threat of cool moisture. Rain, sleet or snow was destined to fall from night sky above them. There were no stars, no moon of which light could be provided. Darkness surrounded them, extending in the horizon for miles. Gazing intently into this darkness, Ben did his best not to acknowledge or provide any attention to the man standing before him. He tried to ignore his chilling smile and the wicked gleam in his blue eyes.

While Ben was awake, caring for his injured son, the Eastgate sheriff had called this man, Peter Kane, a devil, and others had insinuated he was a demon in disguise. The words had haunted Ben in his waking hours though, if he were honest, he had never believed such a thing could be proven true. He would never allow himself to believe it.

While a man could be corrupt, depraved, malicious and sinister, that didn't make him an archfiend. Men were men; devils and demons where something else entirely—in his waking hours he knew Kane had been no more than a monster of a man. But in his dreams, being forced to stand before Kane as he chuckled and sneered, his eyes glistening and gleaming as he recounted things about Adam, Ben himself, and the past, things no stranger—no man—should have ever known, he wondered who or what Kane really was.

_"So, you're changing the rules,"_ Kane said, his voice disrupting the silence around them. _"Good plan, Papa. I wonder what Adam will do in response?" _

_ "I will not speak to you anymore,"_ Ben said firmly. _"I do not care for your tales." _

_"Why? Because you're afraid of the things I say? Or is it because of the truth I know? Oh, the things I could tell you if only you'd listen."_

_"I will not,"_ Ben said.

_"Hmm,"_ Kane hummed disapprovingly; the noise which escaped him was grinding and deep. _"I am disappointed in you. You may have heard tales about me, but you have no idea the tales I have heard about you. The Great Ben Cartwright, one of the bravest and strongest men the world has to offer." _He scoffed._ "You're not as great as the stories would lead one to believe, and you aren't brave, at least where your sons are concerned."_

_"Do you dare talk about—" _

_"Your sons are your strength but they're your weakness too. Your love for them makes you a coward. It makes you do mindless things. Take yesterday for example, Adam was lost and then he was found and now you're not taking time to consider what actually happened. You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him distract you from the questions you should be asking. How did he get from the timber camp to the lake unseen? When did his direction change and why?"_

_"I don't know," _Ben said. _"And I don't care. We found him, that's what's important."_

_"How do you know? If you aren't privy to the truth of certain events then who are you decide their importance?" _

_"I will not discuss this with you. I will not discuss anything with you." _

_"With God all things are possible,"_ Kane said. _"I wonder what kind of things the devil can allow one to achieve? The devil was in Ross Marquette, remember? In the end, even your son thought so; although, after Ross's death he kept that particular belief to himself. He kept a lot of things to himself. Do you remember what the time that came after was like? What Adam was like?"_

Closing his eyes, Ben tried to ignore the question and the memories Kane was so determined to unearth. He didn't want to be reminded of the past. The present and future seemed difficult enough without recalling old wounds.

_"The day Ross and his wife died a part of your son died too,"_ Kane said. _"He killed a part of himself when he killed his best friend. His actions which followed made that abundantly clear. You were so afraid of losing him then, do you remember? Fear consumed you. You were so worried he was becoming like his grandfather was, drinking himself into oblivion. When you didn't worry about the amount and frequency in which he was drinking, then you worried he would become too liquored to think clearly and get himself killed. And when you didn't worry about either of those things, you worried about something worse. That fateful day was coming. You could feel it approaching, remember? It was becoming closer and closer with each minute that passed, that dreaded inescapable day when he would leave home and you for good. And for a while he did. Where were you then, Papa?" _

Opening his eyes, Ben didn't want to respond, but he was incapable of remaining silent. It was too painful of a memory to be ignored; Adam had left after Ross's death, but he hadn't remained gone.

_"He came back,"_ Ben said. _"I brought him back."_

_"Even then he was different. Quiet. Distant. He became more careful and reserved." _

_"He came around." _

_"He wasn't the same. There was a distinct difference between who he had been and who he became. That was when his need to leave home truly became apparent. It was as though he couldn't tolerate remaining in place for more than a week. He began favoring business trips over being home and anytime travel was needed you began delegating it to him. You chose him for those trips over your others sons because you knew the truth. That dreaded day was closer than it had ever been; someday was approaching quicker than it ever had. What you could offer him, the life and legacy you built was ceasing to appease him. He was born a wanderer, but it was his later actions, it was his pain which gave birth to his need to run. He couldn't stay where he was, not forever. Not for long. The memories of the past were consuming him. There was too much pain for him to contend— " _

_"What is the point of this conversation?"_ Ben growled. _"Why must you always repeat what I already know?" _

_"You're the Great Ben Cartwright, don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future. You know, you should really be thanking me." _

Chill creeping up his spine, Ben was appalled.

_"If it wasn't for me," _Kane continued, _"Adam would have remained unchanged. He would have continued wandering and running until he never came back and now..."_ He paused, his lips curling into a toothy grin. _"...He'll never leave."_

Waking from the dream suddenly, Ben found dawn had come uneventfully. He dressed quickly and quietly, silently struggling to dismiss Kane's final words. They were hard to ignore and had awoken a new kind of pain. How could he ever look upon the changes in Adam as something to be thankful for?

Striding through the hallway, he found Hoss emerging from his bedroom.

"Mornin', Pa," he whispered. Pulling his arms through his brown vest, he was careful not to shut the door behind him.

"Good morning, son."

"You look like you're in need of some good news."

Hoss nodded at the bed beyond the doorway and Ben's eyes found Adam sleeping peacefully. Seeing his eldest son in his middle one's bed was a difficult thing to interpret as good though he knew it was. If Adam had moved, if he had risen from bed and walked to Hoss's bedroom then that meant his unresponsive state had ended.

"He came in early this morning," Hoss whispered. "Of course, he didn't say nothin' but he walked in on his own. I don't mind sayin' I'm grateful he didn't linger how we found him yesterday for too long."

Ben was grateful too though he remained silent. It was difficult to feel anything beyond the disturbed emotions his dream had left behind.

_He'll never leave_, Kane's vicious words singsonged in his mind, torturing him with their agonizing truth.

Moving to the side of the bed, he watched Adam sleep for a moment, oddly taken by the very contradiction of his son's appearance. Curled into a tight ball beneath the blankets, his form was deceiving. He was skinny and he appeared small, the state of his body more fitting of someone much younger. It was his face which gave the truth away. The length of his beard and the slight beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes which had become more pronounced due to his dramatic weight loss. It occurred to Ben that his son did not look a boy and he no longer looked quite like a man. He looked weak, sickly, the state of his body reflecting illness of his mind, leaving him captive somewhere between a man and a child.

How could he possibly have believed his son was capable of venturing into the outside world? How could any of them thought a trip to the timber camp or even town was an appropriate idea?

Despite these grim questions there was one answer which remained unchanged since the evening before. Asking too much of Adam and then struggling with the consequences of his actions were the only things which could have demanded they see the situation for what it really was. Adam was sick and he wasn't getting better; in fact, with each day that passed, he seemed to be getting worse.

But today was bound to be better, Ben was reminded, because yesterday was decidedly worse. Yesterday Adam had been missing, lost to the land and running from whatever it was he saw or felt. Today he was safe and warm, tucked into his brother's bed and Ben intended to keep him that way.

Longing to feel him, to have tangible proof of Adam's physical presence, Ben extended his hand and carded his fingers through his son's unruly hair. Adam looked so feeble, so defenseless beneath the blankets. He looked like someone who needed to be protected and cared for. He looked a stranger in comparison to who he had once been.

Ben though of Ross Marquette then—though he didn't want to. It was a hard comparison to avoid. A glaring one that everyone around him seemed as aware of as himself. Doc Martin had likened Adam's mental confusion to that of Ross. Ben still knew they were drastically different. While they both were unbalanced, the symptoms of their respective unbalances were different. Ross had taken to hurting others but Adam seemed intent on only hurting himself. Even so, violence was violence and both types of brutality demanded to be stopped. It was Adam who had been forced to stop Ross, and Ben knew it was he who needed to stop Adam. He would do for his son what couldn't be done for another. He would save Adam from himself. One way or another, somehow, someway he would.

"Doc was worried about leavin' him alone," Hoss whispered. "You want him up and out?"

Reaching for an extra quilt folded on the top of the bureau, Ben shook it and his head. "No," he said. "Let him sleep. We'll leave the door open and I'll check on him after a bit."

Tucking the quilt over Adam, Ben glanced at the oil lamp. It was flame burning so slightly that it was in danger of being extinguished by even the slightest burst of air. It was a problem Hoss quickly noted and rectified before following his father out of the room.

They came upon a Joe in the hallway. Holding his boots in one hand, he was covering his yawning mouth with the other. Nudging their backs with the palms of his hands, Ben silently shepherded both of his sons down the stairs.

"We need to talk about Adam," he said, standing at the foot of the fireplace as his sons gathered around.

"What does that mean?" Blinking blearily, Joe on the blue chair and dropped his boots on the floor and cast Ben a tired look.

"It means things are gonna change," Hoss provided softly.

"What kind of things?" Brows furrowing, Joe looked between his brother and his father; any tiredness he had been feeling was chased away by anticipation and concern. "Now what does _that_ mean?"

"We need to accept the way things are," Hoss said. "What Adam can do and what he can't. He ain't the same, Joe. We've all known that for a while, and if we didn't then yesterday was proof of it. Adam's in a bad way, there's no use in hidin' that from each other now."

"He's sick," Joe stubbornly insisted. "That doesn't mean he can't get better."

"He's not getting better," Ben said sadly. Oh, how the word hurt to say aloud. "Joseph, he can't take care of himself."

"He ain't to be trusted alone," Hoss said. "He hurt himself before, he'll do it again."

Ben wondered how in-depth Hoss's conversation with Doctor Martin had been, if this was another thing which had been advised or if it was deduction Hoss had made on his own. It was bound to be the latter; Hoss was as aware of Adam's odd behavior as his father. He had seen and acknowledged his older brother's self-harming actions and it had concerned him enough not to offer Adam a gun prior to their visit at the timber camp.

"Is this about what Frank Marshal said about Adam yesterday?" Joe demanded. "Because, I'm tellin' you, Pa, Frank is liar. He was a liar when he worked at the Silver Dollar and he's a liar now."

"It ain't about what Frank said," Hoss said. "It's about what Adam did. Now I don't like or believe that man any more than you do, Joe, but that don't change the fact that Adam is the one who chose to run away. He was the one who decided to go missing and take himself to the lake. Nobody helped him; nobody told him to take off his clothes and sit in the cold water. He did it all on his own. I'm worried; Pa's worried and you should be too, because we don't know what else Adam might choose to do on his own."

"Yesterday we were lucky, Joe," Ben said softly. "We found him and brought him home safe; in the future we may not be so fortunate. Adam needs to be... watched. He doesn't eat; he doesn't sleep in his own bed. He needs to be cared for and told what to do."

"You'll turn him into an invalid," Joe said his voice trembling and eyes filling with furious tears. "Adam is _strong_, Pa. He's always been so... _strong_."

"I know," Ben said his voice tight. In Joe's expression he saw his own emotions, sadness over what Adam's life had become and fear over the unknown deterioration the future could potentially bring. He empathized with his youngest son's dread and anxiety over changing anything where Adam was concerned. What if they made it too easy for him to remain sick? What if by changing their expectations of him, they were ensuring he never improved?

"Things have to change, Joe," Hoss said. "You know it, don't act like you don't."

"Haven't they changed enough?" Joe asked. Elbows propped in his knees, he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. Breaths coming in shaky gasps, it took a moment for him to compose himself enough to continue. "You're giving up on him."

Ben frowned. "I am not— "

"Yes," Joe insisted. "You are. You both are. It's like when we're searching for him the desert all over again. Don't you remember, Pa? The minute when we were gonna give up is the very moment we found him. We were ready to give in and then there he was."

It was an occasion Ben didn't think he wouldn't ever forget, both due to the relief and guilt attached to it. They had given up on finding Adam and then out of nowhere he had appeared. If it was a decision made five minutes earlier, if Adam's pace had been any slower, they would have missed him completely. He would have died in the desert, laughing and chattering nonsense while carrying Kane's body around. They had given up then and Adam could have died. It was a decision that haunted all of them, he supposed. But this decision was nothing like that one. He wasn't resigning himself to accepting his oldest son's assumed death; he was doing what was necessary to keep him alive.

"Joe," Ben said gently. Moving away from the fireplace, he crouched in front of his son. His knees aches and cracked in protest of the movement, irrefutable evidence of his age. "Look at me."

Staring at the floorboards, sniffling and swiping his hands over his eyes, Joe did not comply.

Ben wanted to tell him there was no shame in shedding tears over the conversation; some truths where harder to accept than others. There was no harm in expressing sadness; there was nothing wrong with grieving the loss of the Adam they once knew. However, there was wrong and fault in remaining in denial, in not doing everything possible to help the person Adam had become.

"I know this isn't easy," Ben said. "I know it hurts."

"It hurts more because it's Adam," Hoss said, soft knowing words which finally prompted Joe to look up and set his eyes upon his older brother. "Like you said, Joe, he's always been strong. Maybe that's why it's got to be okay for him to be a little weak. Nobody's infallible, little brother."

"I know that," Joe whispered. "I just wish I knew what he went through; I wish I knew what was making him feel or do what he does."

"We all wish that," Ben said.

"I wish I could help him," Joe said.

"Adam's always been our older brother," Hoss said. "And he'll always be that, even now. It's hard to accept him the way his now because he's never been like how he is. He's always been stubborn and strong, lovin' and protecting us, both when we was kids and even sometimes when we were grown. He wasn't always happy about it neither, but he did it because that's what older brothers do. He watched over us our whole lives, Joe, and now it's time for us to do the same for him. We got to love and protect him, even if it's from himself, and that's how you help him now."

Joe considered the words for a moment, then cleared his throat and swiped his hands over his eyes, wiping away his tears. He glanced at Ben, then at Hoss, then repeated the motion. When he laid his eyes upon Hoss a third time, he didn't look away. Green eyes shining with determination, he pursued his lips and nodded firmly.

"Okay," he agreed.

"Okay," Hoss repeated. "Now, let's see what Hop Sing has on for breakfast."

Smiling slightly, Ben finally stood. As he watched his sons rise from their seats and make way to the kitchen, he was grateful for the wisdom shared among brothers, all the things his middle son could convince both his older and younger son to believe and do. Hoss's patience, kindness, and quiet insight were all gifts. Though Hoss would never ask for one, Ben knew he owed him an apology for his previous doubts.

"Hoss hold back for a minute," he said.

Casting a forlorn look at the kitchen, Hoss hesitated in place and then turned around. "Yeah, Pa?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pants pockets as he closed the gap between them.

"I'm sorry," Ben said. "For the things I said last night. I was worried, which I know is a poor excuse."

"Ah, Pa," Hoss said, scrunching his nose. "I know that. You don't have to apologize. I reckon sometimes there's just nothing fear can't make a man believe."

"That doesn't make what I said to you right."

"It don't exactly make it wrong neither."

"Well, either way, I want you to know I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted you. I trust you indefinitely when it comes your brothers."

"I know." Smiling Hoss turned, then hesitated and looked at his father once more. "Pa?" he asked. "Just what exactly did Frank Marshal say to you when you rode together lookin' for Adam?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did he say about Adam?"

"Nothing much. He said they were friends."

"Friends, huh?" Hoss appeared perplexed.

"Well, friendly," Ben qualified. "Why?"

"I don't know much about Adam and Frank being friends or even friendly. In fact, I recall them being just about the opposite."

"Frank said Adam was the one who hired him."

"Oh, he did," Hoss said. "But I don't think Adam offerin' Frank a job had anything to do with them being on good terms."

"What makes you say that?"

"Like Joe said, Frank was a hand from Silver Dollar. He's the wandering type, used to come and go quite a bit in those days. He'd turn up to work round up for Ross every year and he wouldn't stick around after. He showed up in Virginia City a month or two after Ross and Del died, about the time when Adam was really going through his... _difficulties_. He and Frank where known to have violent disagreements at the saloon. Hearsay was that Frank was of the opinion Adam owed him a job because... well, because he was the one who killed Ross and by doing so he had dismantled the Silver Dollar's business operation and cost him his job."

"Hearsay?"

"Hearsay to me." Hoss shrugged. "I never witnessed the fights myself and never could get anything out of Adam afterward about what started 'em."

Ben didn't need specific details; he could imagine the derogatory things that could have been said and how it would have made Adam feel. During that time, Adam had felt bad enough—he had blamed himself enough for what had happened to Ross—he hadn't needed anyone else to declare him guilty of what he already perceived as a crime.

"Frank said Adam saved him from himself," Ben said. "He said it was a favor he would like to return."

"Frank says a lot of things."

"Like what?" Ben pressed.

"Does it matter?" Hoss asked.

Ben wasn't sure. The information Frank had volunteered conflicted with what Hoss or even Joe knew. Had the man been lying and if so, then for what gain?

"You know, I thought a lot about Frank last night," Hoss continued. "Adam and Ross Marquette too. I kept thinking about what happened with Ross, what Adam was forced do and how he was after, all the drinkin' and running away he did. And then I thought about how he ran away yesterday and how Frank said he looked him in the eye and grinned. I don't know if I believe that, but I think maybe seeing Frank at the camp may have something to do with Adam running. Don't ask me why. I just do."

_How did he get from the timber camp to the lake unseen? _Kane's words echoed in Ben's mind. _When did his direction change and why?_

"Do you trust Frank Marshal?" Ben asked an odd feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "Do you think he was telling the truth about how your brother left that camp?"

"No." Hoss shook his head. "Not even a little bit. Not that matters much though, because whether I believe Frank or not, it still don't explain how Adam left without anyone noticing or how he made it to the lake without being seen. Somebody should have seen something, Pa; it doesn't make sense that Frank was the only one who did."

Nodding, Ben silently agreed. It was odd, the things Frank had said and the things Adam had done. He didn't like strangers and he didn't like to be alone, but he hadn't been alone at the timber camp. He had been in both of this brothers' company, and, friend or something else, Frank hadn't been a stranger. So why would Adam run?

This was a question Ben would spend the afternoon considering whilst in the company of his silent oldest son.

The day was relatively unspectacular, which was a gift in comparison to one which had come before. Adam slept late into the morning, then rose, dressed, and descended the staircase on his own. He appeared slightly tired but not overly so. His facial expressions where temperate and unenthusiastic. To Ben, it seemed as though the day prior hadn't happened at all—as if Adam unresponsive state had come and gone without Adam being truly aware of it ever taking place.

Nursing a cup of coffee, Ben sat with him at the table, carefully watching as Adam shoved the breakfast Hop Sing had cooked for him idly back and forth on his plate. They sat there for a while, long enough for Ben to refill his coffee cup and for Adam's food to become cold.

Watching his son fiddle with his fork before placing in on the table with heavy sigh, Ben finally decided some encouragement was needed.

"Adam if there is something else you would rather eat that can be obliged. If you don't want what has been given to you then use your words to ask for something else. You have to eat, son; you've lost too much weight, even you must be aware of that."

He waited for a reaction, for a stubborn spark to appear in Adam's eyes as he silently opposed the ultimatum. He expected some kind of unsavory response; the threat of shoving the plate on the floor, or of something else. He anticipated some sort of stubborn challenge.

One never came.

Retrieving his fork, Adam gave the contents of his plate one final shove before he began to slowly eat. More time passed around Ben and his son; it took a while but Adam was able to stomach half of his breakfast. Dropping the fork, he pushed the plate back slight and peered at his father as though to ask if what he eaten was enough.

Smiling, Ben decided it was. "That's good enough for now," he said.

Nodding once, Adam pushed his chair back from the table, preparing to stand as his father grasped his forearm and ceased his movement.

"Wait," Ben said. He hadn't meant to keep Adam at the table any longer than necessary; he hadn't had any intention of addressing what had happened yesterday. His instruction was impetuous, as unpredictable as the next words out of his mouth. "I met a friend of yours yesterday, Frank Marshal. He's one of your men at the timber camp. He said you hired him. Do you remember doing that?"

He wasn't expecting an answer; he was looking for some kind of reaction. Hints of conflict or familiarly etched on this oldest son's face. He saw neither as Adam's stony expression did not waiver. Eyes set on the wall behind Ben, he didn't appear bothered by the mention of Frank; he didn't seem the slightest bit concerned about the recount of yesterday's events. It was as though they were happenings which had nothing to do with him; it was as though his father was chronicling sparse events of someone else's day, a person whom Adam had no interest in or concern for.

"He helped me look for you," Ben said. "He said you ran up the mountain and into the trees. Do you remember doing that?"

As Adam's focus didn't waiver, Ben wondered if he was being ignored. The he wondered why he was pushing this topic of conversation, struggling to glean answers to questions Adam remained unwilling to speak about or completely unaware of.

Squeezing his son's forearm reassuringly, Ben forced a small smile and himself to abandon the conversation. "Well, we found you," he said. "That's what important."

_How do you know?_ Kane's question rung in Ben's ears. _If you aren't privy to the truth of certain events, then who are you decide their importance?_

Suddenly fidgeting beneath the weight of his father's hand, Adam turned in his chair and cast a wide-eyed gaze at the end of the table opposite his father. It was the oddest thing—Ben recognized that in the moment. Eyes focused on the empty chair at the end of the table, Adam's breaths were quiet and labored as he began to tremble.

"Adam?" Ben asked. "What's wrong?"

Shaking his head in an overwhelmed manner, Adam pulled his arm away from his father and stood. A series of frantic paces took him from the table to the base of the staircase, where he suddenly stopped; turning in place, he set his eyes on the empty chair once more. Hand moving absently, he tugged at his shirtsleeve until the button on the cuff gave out and fell on the floor, then slipping his fingertips beneath the gaping fabric, he began to scratch his arm.

The movements were slow, harmless at first. Then, as Ben approached, they became something more; quick, furious and violent, his nails dug and raked his skin deeply, reopening the wounds he had inflicted upon himself the day before and leaving set of fresh long puckered lines behind.

Grasping his son's arm, Ben held it firmly and pulled it away, his own eyes wide and horrified. Blood dripped from Adam's forearm, a thick, deep red substance which matched the stains on his fingertips.

"Adam," Ben said, his voice soft, thick and full of shock.

Looking at his father, Adam's face was void of emotion. He stared at him for moment, then looked back at the empty chair, then looked at his father, and then back at the chair.

Ben felt as though he was missing something, something important, something big. Some invisible detail that would allow him to finally understand everything. Why Adam ran away; why he hurt himself; and why he suddenly seemed so afraid.

Looking at the chair, Ben didn't see anything. It was empty; there was nothing to see. Nothing to explain Adam's behavior; nothing to explain anything at all.

Breathing coming in panicked gasps, Adam's body grew weak beneath his weight. Wobbling slightly, his knees buckled and he began to fall.

Letting of his son's wrist, Ben caught him easily and hoisted his limp body into his arms. Though he had never seen the beginning of one of his son's unresponsive states before, he was certain that was what this was. He had no idea what caused it. How could a something as harmless as a chair possibly give birth to such a thing?

Cradling his son, he placed him a different chair, the blue one that was so loved, safe and familiar. Kneeling before Adam, Ben held his cheeks in both of his palms, forcing his son to look at him.

Slowly, Adam's eyes were becoming dull and glazed.

"You're not doing this," Ben said forcing as firm of a tone as he could. "Do you understand me? You're not doing this, not now. Not ever again. Stay with me, Adam. Don't run away like this."

Staring absently, Adam's head began to grow heavy in his hands and Ben felt panic rise in chest. Little by little, he was losing his son to another state of absentness that would last who knew how long. He had had him and now he was losing him again.

There were splotches of blood everywhere, smeared stains collecting upon both their shirts, the chair and the floor. Bright and accusing, they served as evidence of another good day turned bad. Tired of all the bad days, Ben was desperate for some good.

"Stay with me, Adam," he repeated firmly. "I can help you; I can protect you from whatever it is you can't escape. Please, _pleas_e, son, don't do this again. Darling, I..." He hesitated, shocking even himself with the epithet. It had been years since it had escaped him, ages since it had been directed toward one of his sons.

It was the word that seemed to change everything. Body becoming ridged beneath his weight, Adam pushed the back of his head toward the chair as the dull, glazed look in his eyes transformed to something else.

Hands falling from his son's cheeks, Ben gripped Adam's knees. A relieved smile danced on his lips as he saw a hint of anger and indigence in his son's hazel eyes. While Adam many have retained Papa, keeping it in his vast repertoire for use in private and as ammunition, he hadn't allowed Ben to do the same.

"You always did hate when I called you that," Ben said. "Even when where you were a baby, I'm convinced. You put an end to its use as soon as you could speak. I suppose, it is a comfort to know some things will never change."

Trembling beneath his father's hands, Adam cast a worried glance at the chair once more. Brows knitting, his face contorted painfully as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was still horribly upset, frightened and intimated by a dining room chair, the presence of which was something he had been accustomed to for years.

It didn't make sense how the morning could start so well and then end like this. It simply didn't seem logical for Adam to be fine one moment and then so overcome the next, overwhelmed by seemingly nothing. There was nothing in the chair, any rational man could see that, but Adam wasn't a rational man, not right now. Not anymore.

Watching Adam's focus remain frozen on the intimate object, Ben thought about Frank Marshal and his odd recount of how Adam had left the timber camp. Frank had said Adam seemed nervous. He had said he kept looking over his shoulder and staring at the base of the mountain.

_It was weird, _Franks recount echoed in Ben's ears, _the way he was looking at it, like somebody or something was there. I didn't see nobody, but I think maybe he did._

Ben cast a confused glance at the empty chair. There was still nothing to be seen, nothing of suspect at all.

_His eyes, they were gleaming, glistening with something akin to evil._

Looking at Adam, Ben found his son's eyes were gleaming, glistening not with anything close to evil but unshed tears.

"What's over there, Adam?" Ben asked softly as Adam's bottom lip began to quiver. "What could possibly be bothering you this much?"

Adam didn't answer; Ben didn't expect him to. He did anticipate, however, the sobbing fit which quickly consumed his son.

"It's okay," Ben reassured. "I promise you it is. Whatever it is, it can't hurt you. I'm right here.

Adam's cries were full of agitation, so deep they rattled his chest. Panicked, fearful, and devastated, they were accompanied by tears which seemed to have no end.

Ben did the only thing he could think of to help his son's pain. Pulling Adam's shaking body close, he held and rocked him, rubbing slow circles on his back. Mournfully, he couldn't help noting this was the most noise he had heard from his son in weeks. It was so reminiscent of the sobbing fit Adam had when he had been found wandering the desert—or even the ones which had come after. It was knowledge that did nothing to calm his worry, or hasten what felt like age-old questions as they sprung to the forefront of his mind.

What was going on? What was happening to his son?

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

In the following days, Ben came to believe it was not the chair that had disturbed Adam.

Of course, he never really believed his son's distress had been because of the inanimate object. He just hadn't known what exactly had caused it, what could have been so frightening, overwhelming and daunting to prompt or demand such a violent reaction.

The chair was removed, a decision made swiftly made by Hop Sing. He had been waiting, quietly watching Adam and Ben's interaction from the small hallway connecting the dining room and the kitchen. When Adam's tears had finally calmed to a sporadic sniffle and he had not yet been willing to emancipate himself from his father's arms, Hop Sing had quietly entered the dining room. He took the chair, removing it without explanation, permission, or apology. Ben neither asked why he was doing such a thing nor did he ever glean where the dreaded item was to be taken. At the time, he was too focused on Adam to be concerned about anything else.

But Hop Sing came to him later, when Adam was in company of his brothers.

Standing in front of the fireplace, a drink in his hand, Ben stared absently at the flames. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular, rather he was trying not think of anything at all. Taking solace in the absence of thought was a difficult thing to do; there were always so many things to think about, countless moments to recall, and endless worry.

Hop Sing was quiet, light on his feet; Ben hadn't realized the man had approached until he turned around, his back facing the flames. He discovered Hop Sing standing paces away. They assessed each other for a few silent moments, each seemingly waiting for the other speak.

It was Hop Sing who spoke first, his face contorting, pinching with concern. "What frighten Mista Adam not chair," he said. The statement was matter-of-fact; his voice was quiet but his tone was firm; there was a conviction behind his words and in his dark eyes.

The statement was not something Ben needed confirmation of. Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, he took a series of small sips, allowing a few more moments to pass and the right words to come to him before he finally replied.

"He's confused," Ben said, repeating the obvious. "His mind is sick."

"No," Hop Sing disagreed firmly, shaking his head. "No. He no sick. He no confused."

Ben frowned. It had been such a taxing day; he was not in the mood to navigate Hop Sing's denial.

"Hop Sing—"

"Mista Adam leave. He go with younger brother to deliver cattle. He become lost." Hop Sing pointed at Ben. "Father and brothers leave too. They gone for long time. They find him; they bring him home, but Mista Adam no come back alone."

"I know. He returned with us."

"No," Hop Sing said. "Father take time, see through Adam eyes, he understand Adam only one who see clearly."

"He sees what clearly?"

"Móguǐ," Hop Sing said grimly. It was a word and reference Ben couldn't begin to understand as he watched Hop Sing raise his hands and waive them purposely through the air, firmly punctuating his next words. "No sick, no confused. He no come back alone."

Ben dismissed the concerned warning. He accounted the odd, determined statement to cultural differences and definitions of words lost in translation. Surely, he and Hop Sing equally understood the sad truth of what was happening to Adam; if they could speak further on the topic, both utilizing and comprehending the same language, then they would come to find they were saying the same thing. After all, Adam had not come home alone; he had been in the company of his family. He hadn't been sick then or confused—at least not at first. Those things had come later. And as for the chair, both Ben and Hop Sing knew it was nothing to be frightened of. It was only Adam whose opinion differed.

In the days which followed, the chair remained absent from the table and Hop Sing lingered closer Adam than he ever had before. Using a fine-tipped brush began to paint Chinese symbols on the tops of Adam's hands, whispering what sounded to Ben like prayers or incantations in his native language while the ink dried. Ben didn't know if he approved of such a thing but something about the symbols seemed to be comforting to Adam; they calmed him in a way nothing had before.

When Hop Sing's drawings expanded from the back of Adam's hand to the back of his bedroom door, however, Ben was furious. Adam's confusion didn't justify defacing the woodgrain of a perfectly good door. He immediately demanded it be replaced, then something incredible happened. No longer rising in the middle of the night, Adam remained in his own bed, in his own room. And that was when Ben decided to leave well enough alone. Hop Sing could write all over the house if it left Adam confident enough to spend the night on his own.

Adam's newfound nighttime routine wasn't so easily accepted by everyone. With his older brother in his own bed, it was Hoss's slumber which became disturbed. He woke multiple times during the night, overcome by worry and anxious to verify Adam's safety.

"Sometimes I dream we never found him," Hoss admitted to Ben one morning. "It was easier to ignore my nightmares when I woke up and he was on the other side of my bed. Now, with him gone, I open my eyes still believing the dreams are real and I have no choice but to look in on him, and every time I do, I find myself wishin' he was still too afraid to spend the night alone."

Shaking his head, Hoss's conflict over stating such a thing was clear.

"I hate I'm sayin' it, Pa," he continued. "I really do. But just because Adam's suddenly decided he ain't afraid to be in his room alone that don't mean he should be allowed to be."

"Why?" Ben pressed softly.

"He don't sleep. Every time I look in on him, I find him awake. He's never in bed; he's always by the window, standing or sitting as he stares out into the darkness like there's something out there to be seen. It's like he's standing watch. It's like he's waiting for something to come. I know that don't that don't make sense, but swear that what it seems like."

It was Hoss who had first discovered Adam's odd behavior during the night and it was Ben who was the first to identify and note his eldest son's strange reactions to things during the day. The occasion with the chair was the first and the majority of the ones which followed were subtle in comparison to that morning; they were so minute they could have almost gone unnoticed. Ben began to wonder if he had been missing them all along.

Adam would be peaceful, unbothered one moment, his attention set on whatever lay before him, and then it was a though he perceived something about his surroundings as suddenly changed, then he would change.

Brows knitting painfully, fists clenched, he would set his focus on something neither Ben nor his other sons could see. His breathing would change, each inhale becoming more labored than the one before; his eyes would change, widening with dread and fear. He would move then; seemingly turning his back on whatever it was he saw, he would find a new place to sit or stand and then it would be over. The situation would be calmed as quickly as it became troublesome.

They were such quick, small reactions, easily missed or overlooked by a casual observer, and Ben was convinced he had been missing them. Determined not to see what was before him, afraid of seeing Adam as who had become, of bracing himself to react rather than prevent a bad day, he was convinced he had missed the strange behavior as it happened before. But now, keeping careful watch, viewing his oldest son under almost a microscopic lens, he missed next to nothing.

He came to be grateful for the moment Adam was bothered by the empty chair, for the emotional breakdown which followed, and his own reaction to his son's behavior, his determination to keep Adam mentally present, not allowing him to disassociate with the here and now. It was a moment that changed nothing and everything at the same time. It didn't change how Adam was; it didn't make everything suddenly better; it didn't magically transform Adam from the person he had become back into who he once was but things did improve, because Ben's understanding shifted. His interpretation of his son's behavior changed.

Adam was seeing things, of this Ben was certain. And it was because of this certainty, of the new lens he used to interpret and understand his son's behavior, he was able to assist him more effectively. When Adam became truly bothered, frightened and tormented by something unseen, when moving away from the assumed source of distress did nothing to calm him, Ben no longer allowed his son to run away or give himself into another state of unresponsiveness. He remained by Adam's side, holding and speaking to him, grounding him in the moment in away only a father could.

On particularly bad occasions, times when nothing seemed to calm his anxiety or fear, Adam would reach for his arm, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve to scratch. Ben would reach to his son's hand then, directing it away from the harm he intended to inflict and towards something else. He began employing an age-old tactic he had once depended upon when his each of sons were much younger than they currently were. He would distract him, stealing his attention away from whatever was causing him so much distress. It didn't often work, but sometimes it did.

Distraction was a tactic Hoss quickly picked up on and utilized, coaxing his quiet older brother into countless games of checkers around the fireplace when Adam seemed particularly tense. Adam's enthusiasm over such a thing was lackluster; still, he played, besting his brother more often than he lost.

Little Joe still seemed to struggle with accepting how things were, the changes he perceived as Hoss and Ben giving up on Adam. But he did what he was asked of him; he watched over Adam when his brother ventured into the yard and then barn, assisting him with morning chores. Ben had been conflicted about stripping away what was left of Adam's sparse duties. He neither liked the thought of his oldest son having no responsibilities nor did he think it was prudent to allow him to complete such rigorous chores given the state of his emaciated body. What was currently good for his body, Ben was certain wasn't good for Adam's mind, and he struggled with making the appropriate choice for his son.

Unbeknownst to him, it was Joe who solved his father's conundrum. Advising Adam to dress warm, he had asked him to accompany him outside to do what he did best, supervise he and Hoss as they completed the chores. Ben was grateful for the magnificence of the idea, the discretion and kindness displayed by his youngest son toward his eldest one. Later, he was grateful for another thoughtful gesture Joe made. Traveling to Virginia City for supplies, Joe returned with a couple of items not on either Hop Sing's or his father's lists, two new books which he promptly gave to Adam.

"I don't think you've read these before," he said. "I thought maybe you'd want to."

And much to the surprise and delight of his family, Adam did want to read them. They became the first books he opened since returning home.

Ben began to regard the quiet peaceful moments with Adam as gifts. He was grateful for each and every one. It so easy to forget anything had changed when they were taking place; with Joe and Hoss bickering about this or that and with Adam, sitting cross legged in front of the fireplace, his head buried in a book, it was so easy to pretend nothing had ever changed.

Of course, things had changed.

Adam was still anxiety-ridden and agonizingly quiet. If one didn't know to look for him, to note his presence and watch him carefully, he could spend hours in a room without anyone realizing he was there. His eyes were still glazed, dull and absent; most of the time it appeared he was looking through rather than at the things which surrounded him. He was still thin; disinterested in and adverse to eating, he ate sparingly—some days not at all and others the minimum his father required for him to leave the table. He still had good days and bad, occasions when the presence of his father was enough to calm him and others when it wasn't.

Overall, however, things felt different. Adam seemed different and his brothers were different too. Calmness had enveloped them, a kind of curious peace. No longer waking each morning anticipating a good day or bad, for Adam to improve or decline, they were able to negotiate each day, each moment as it came without feeling hastened by what it could or should have been. His younger sons had relaxed, accepted things as they were. Ben only wished he could do the same.

The knowledge of Adam's odd reactions to things which couldn't be seen lingered, as did Hop Sing's actions, his validation of whatever it was Adam feared. To Ben, it all seemed so strange, Adam's tense reactions to seemingly nothing and his acceptance of Hop Sing's support; he couldn't help likening the behavior of the Adam of the present to the one of the past.

Adam had always been indefatigable, unrelenting in his beliefs. He wasn't afraid to stand alone; he had never needed anyone to be on his side. It bothered Ben that Hop Sing's actions soothed Adam. It began to make him think—as ludicrous of a notion as it was—that something about what his son saw and feared was real. If someone other than Adam believed in whatever it was, then who was to say it wasn't?

It was a preposterous idea—Ben knew that. Adam's mind was sick, therefore susceptible to suggestion— Ben knew this too— but something about how Hop Sing was able to soothe Adam so efficiently with his painted symbols and prayers. Adam and always been so stanch, obstinate in his beliefs. If sickness had truly grabbed a hold of his mind, embedding itself and rendering him incapable of practical thought, then would anything Hop Sing did help? Would anything any of them do ever actually help?

It was the quiet moments which forced Ben to consider this question. It led to other others, unearthing haunting memories of the things he had heard.

_Father take time, see through Adam eyes,_ _then understand Adam only one who see clearly, _Hop Sing had said, advise he had given freely in the hopes Ben could understand what was apparently so clear.

_Was I a man? Was I a demon? Or was I a devil in disguise? _Kane had asked in Ben's dreams, a question which had never made sense when it had been asked. It was only as of late that Ben began to truly wonder who or what the man actually was. Was he a demon? Sent by the devil to torture and break Adam and then the rest of the family. Adam had once said that if a man believed in God then he had no choice but to believe in the devil too. Like Kane had reminded Ben in his dream, Adam had once admitted he thought the devil had taken over Ross Marquette.

_They were close like brothers,_ Doctor Martin had said, speaking about Ross and Adam. _I recall a time when people used to call them twins. As adolescents they followed each other like shadows. If one was in trouble the other wasn't far behind._

_How do you save your son from the devil, Mister Cartwright? _Kane had asked over and over again. _Oh, the things I could tell you if only you'd listen. Adam was lost and then he was found and now you're not taking time to consider what actually happened. You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him distract you from the questions you should be asking._

Where these the questions he should be asking? Should he be less worried about what happened in the desert and more concerned about had prompted the changes in his son after?

When they found Adam, he had been upset but still talking—though the things he had said hadn't made a lot of sense. He didn't want to play anymore games, and he wanted to be let go, those were the most prominent things he had said, repeating them over and over again. And then, seemingly finally becoming aware of his words, Adam stopped saying them. He stopped saying anything at all.

What any of did those things have to do with right now?

It was the past which haunted Ben now. Eternally eager to rise from the depth of his memory to torture him with their shifting contexts and inexplicit possibilities. He could recall the words which had been said, however, he never seemed able to define the explicit reasons they had been said. Intention was fickle and fleeting. He no longer assumed he had ever understood the true reasons anything had been said.

_If you need somebody to blame, then blame me, _Adam had said that night about the campfire. It was one of just a few things Ben could readily recall his son saying after being found._ Because what happened was my fault. It… it was all my fault._

Had Adam really been talking about how the events which had led him to be lost in the desert, or was he referring to something else?

_I thought I'd never see you again, _Adam had said. It was a relieved statement he had directed toward his beloved horse. He hadn't said anything of the sort to his family. Once he became aware of himself in the Eastgate boarding house, he had never directly expressed relief over being found. In the days which followed, he had never acted as though he was happy or grateful to be alive.

Dragging Peter Kane's body around the desert, had he wanted things to turn out different than they had? Had he wanted to die too? Was this the reason for his actions now? Starving himself and disappearing, giving up on life and quietly wasting away before his family's very eyes.

_Guilt can make a man do asinine things,_ the Eastgate sheriff had said.

_I'm sorry_, Adam had said almost immediately upon waking. It was an apology meant for losing the money for the cattle when he was robbed but nothing else. He never spoke about why he had gone against his father's direct orders, deciding to extend his trip and enter the desert alone. He never spoke of what he had been looking for or what he had found.

But later he spoke of other things.

_That's going to be me out there,_ Adam had whispered breathlessly as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth.

_I wonder what kind of story he's going to tell? _Kane's memory was always so quick to ask._ Is he willing to take responsibility for what he's done or is he going to try to hide it? _

Time had forced Ben to believe it was the latter. Adam had chosen muteness over explanations, confusion over acceptance, prolonged sickness over deliverance. He had abandoned his old life—his old self—in exchange of what he had become.

_You don't know what happened, _Adam's words often echoed in Ben's mind._ You don't know… You don't know... You don't know... You don't know!_

He still didn't. It was a fact Ben was ashamed to admit he had given up on refuting or hoping would change.

Xx

Frank Marshal came calling on Adam one particularly cold afternoon; Ben didn't know what to think of the man, the things he had heard about him, the things Frank had said himself, or his determined interest in eldest son. He didn't know what to think, but he knew what to do. Adam wasn't up to seeing anyone; he told Frank as much, which seemed to sadden him.

"Winter is on the immediate horizon," Frank said. Brows furrowing, he squinted through the sparse snowflakes falling from the sky.

"It is." Ben wondered why such an obvious thing needed to be addressed.

"If he ain't up to it now, do you think Adam might be up for a visit come Spring? I really need to talk to him."

"Hard telling," Ben said.

"I take it he's never been the predictable sort."

Looking at Frank warily, Ben didn't reply.

"Well," Frank said, expelling the word with a hearty exhale. "If he ain't up for a visit today then can you remind him of something?"

"Maybe. Depends on what it is you want to say."

"You tell him that summer goes awfully fast. Spring and Fall pass by a man before he even knows they've truly arrived. It's winter and now there won't be going much of anywhere at all, except for maybe the barn, some of the closer pasture."

The statement was invasive, odd coming from a man whom Ben considered a stranger. What did Frank care where Adam went? How was it his business or concern him at all?

"Why do you want him reminded of that?" Ben asked.

Frank shook his head. "You just tell him. Trust me, he'll understand."

Nodding curtly, Ben bid farewell to Frank, half-hoping the man would see fit to never visit his home again. It wasn't until much later, when he was lying awake in bed that he recalled Frank's statement, recognizing it as something he had heard before.

Adam had said those words. Sitting on his father's desk, he had said what Frank had repeated nearly verbatim when making his argument to drive the cattle to Eastgate. It was an unsettling revelation. One which led Ben to believe more had taken place between Frank Mitchel and Adam than previously believed.

Even so, Ben didn't relay Frank's message to Adam. He did share it with Doc Martin and Hoss who both reinforced the decision he had already made. Adam had enough to deal with without adding Frank to his load. There was no sense in sharing a message from an assumed adversary that could disrupt what little progress he had made.

"I think Adam sees things," Ben said one frigid morning.

Sitting across from Doctor Martin in the doctor's small office, he looked forlornly out the window at the large snowflakes falling from the sky. Large piles of the frozen flakes were beginning to accumulate, composing cold piles and leaving any roads and trails to be traveled rimy and taxing, slightly dangerous for those whose didn't see fit to taper their horse's speed.

"You are aware of the event with the chair," Ben added. "There have been others since; though not quite so dramatic, they have occurred nonetheless. He sees things, things that the rest of us can't."

"That does not surprise me," Martin said evenly. "Given his level of psychosis, I would say seeing imaginary things is a predictable development."

"It surprised me," Ben grunted. "Adam has always had such a logical, literal mind. Never once in that boy's life did I believe him capable of seeing things which were not real."

"Pain and suffering are very transformative things. Sometimes they can make the most logical of men disconnected and confused."

"Hop Sing believes the things Adam sees are real."

"He told you that?"

"In so many words." Ben shrugged. "As you know, we really only share a few that can be mutually understood. But it is his actions which declare his belief."

"Painting on Adam's hands and door," Martin provided.

It was information that was not eagerly disclosed; Martin had noted the drawings on Adam's hands during a visit subsequent to his distress over the chair to treat the wounds marking Adam's arm.

The deep, long scratches had since healed, leaving red, puckered scars behind. Though they would fade with time, a hint of them would always remain, proving as a reminder of what Adam had done. They served as a permanent warning of what he could always do again given the chance.

"Hop Sing prays over him too, scatters collections of herbs and things," Ben said. "He carved an amulet, hung it on a strip of leather and around Adam's neck. He won't allow it to be removed. Adam won't even take it off when he bathes."

Martin was nonplused. "Eastern medicine is capable of amazing things." Tilting his head, his lips curled into a small smile. "I won't pretend to understand it but that doesn't lessen its effectiveness."

"Is that what it is? Drawing on hands and doorways, whispering prayers, and carving periapts? None of that sounds like medicine to me."

"Easterners have their own way of doing things. The power of suggestion is a very efficacious thing. Sometimes all that is needed is for the tiniest seed of an idea to be planted in order for a concept to grow. Adam feels better because Hop Sing acts as though what he's doing should make him that way. It isn't the acts themselves that are allowing Adam to improve; it's his belief in them."

"He isn't gullible," Ben disagreed. "He's careful about the people and actions in which he places faith. He may have decided to become mute but he's not simpleminded. He's thoughtful, calculated, logical and literal. He isn't an easy man to convince."

"Yes." Martin cast Ben a sad look. "He was. I'm sorry, Ben; I do feel a duty to remind you, the things you're saying about your son, you're describing the Adam of before, not now."

Exhaling heartily, Ben hung his head. He hadn't intended on embarking on a conversation that would betray the hope he held on to, or the doubt he harbored about what Adam felt or why.

"Statements like that do nothing to answer the question as to why Hop Sing's methods work," Ben said. "Adam is nothing if not determined, even now. His current behavior is testament to that. He's stubborn, steadfast in what he knows and believes. He's never needed anyone to validate his opinions or the truths he is certain of. He is unfaltering in his truth, even when no one else holds the same opinion as his own."

"It bothers you that Hop Sing's efforts help," Martin said matter-of-factly.

"Of course, it bothers me."

"Jealously and resentment are natural emotions given the situation. As Adam's father, you are accustomed to being the person who he comes to during troubling times. You've always been the one who could advise and comfort him best, and now you aren't."

"I am not jealous or resentful of Hop Sing," Ben said firmly. "I'm grateful of his efforts and how they have helped my son. It's because of Hop Sing that Adam has made the improvement he has."

"Then why are you bothered?"

"Because I saw how he looked at that empty chair," Ben said. "I saw how afraid he was. He wanted so badly to leave that moment and I forced him to stay in it. Things like that don't happen over nothing. People don't break without ample reason to. I know my son. I know how he thinks and what he would do. If Adam was afraid of something which existed merely in his head then nothing anyone else did or said would help. He doesn't need validation. He's never been afraid of standing alone."

"Until the day he finally was," Martin said seriously. "It is a sad fact that those of us who seem the strongest are the hardest ones to watch break. Adam is not who he once was; I thought you had given up on the Adam of the past."

"You say that like it's easy," Ben snapped. "Like it's something one can just decide upon and do." He didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He knew his son had changed; he didn't need to be reminded. He was no longer concerned by changes themselves rather what prompted them. The indefinable, elusive thing that transformed Adam right before his eyes. "For thirty-four years that boy has been by my side. I _know_ him. Sick or not, that hasn't changed. I'm telling you, there's more to this. There has to be more. It's almost as if..." He paused, his brows furrowing in thought.

It was almost as if what? What was it, really?

He couldn't help thinking of how Adam had been as child. Late to talk, he always so purposeful with his words, thoughtful and articulate; even as a youngster it was as though he took the time to think of _exactly_ the right words to communicate what he wanted to say. There had been times when he had stopped speaking back then too, regretful occasions Ben tried hard not to unearth. There was no avoiding thinking of them now. There was no ignoring the rough moments they had experienced during their travels West, the things Ben had done to protect his son and how Adam had reacted after. He had been afraid, so terribly afraid; it had led to periods of prolonged silence. Days and sometimes weeks would pass without Adam daring to utter even a word.

Adam was grown man now and with all the ways he had changed there was one which he had remained the same. True terror, pure and overwhelming, had always rendered him speechless. It was his defense mechanism when he didn't know how to employ anything else. When he didn't know how to articulate how he felt or the things weighing on his soul. But never in his life had Adam taken this long to come around and speak about things; previously, Ben had always been able to process what was haunting his son and discern what he needed to do or say to help.

What about this situation was different than anything that had happened before? What was important? The unknown things that happened to Adam in the desert or what had come after?

"I think Adam is afraid," Ben added, soft words he hadn't intended to say aloud. "More than that even, I think he's terrified. I am certain he sees things the rest of us can't. He either he is frightened because he knows the things he sees are not real and he can feel reality slipping away from him, or he's terrified because he knows the things he sees are real and he doesn't know how make them go away."

"Do you really think that's a distinction he could make? Do you think him capable of identifying and declaring his own behavior and delusions irrational?"

"Yes. I do, because if that is the case then his actions would make sense."

"How so?"

"His silence wouldn't be so confusing. He's always been quiet when his mind is troubled. He doesn't talk about things the way my other sons do. He doesn't seek advice or help until he's certain he's up against something he can't handle on his own. He's broods, something which I don't think has changed. It's like..."

Ben's face contorted with thought. Had Adam always seen things? From the moment he had woken up in Eastgate, had he always been haunted by something the rest of them remained unaware of? He was so different upon waking. Quiet and strange when he was amongst his family; skeptical, spiteful, and palpably fearful of anyone he didn't recognize.

_Let me go, _Adam had cried when Hoss held on to him after being found._ I just want to get away from you. _

_It's not right,_ Adam had once protested weakly. Pulling anxiously on his shirtsleeves, his troubled gaze had shifted nomadically around the boarding house bedroom. _I don't like it._

_Get away from me,_ Adam had said to the Eastgate doctor as he assessed him with an astounding level of hatred. _I-I just want to get away._

"Something has a hold on him," Ben said. "Something has wormed its way inside of his head; it's impacting his judgement and actions; it's making him change. I'm not sure what it is exactly. I don't know if it's guilt or pain or the memories of the things that happened to him."

"Or the invisible things he sees," Martin provided. His skepticism was clear. "Which you believe might be real."

Ben cast Martin a wary glance.

"You're a good father, Ben," Martin said, his voice softening. "You have weathered the difficulty of this storm admirably, but wanting something to be true does not make it so. You say you think Adam see things, something which Hop Sing has decided to support him in. I'm telling you hallucinations aren't real. Wanting to believe the things Adam sees are real is never going to change the fact that they are not. They aren't real. If the rest of us can't see them, then they can't possibly be real."

"It's real to him. I'm his father, shouldn't that be enough to make it real to me?"

"No. You allow him to glean whatever comfort he can from the indulgences of others, but you are his father, Ben, and as such, you must always serve as a beacon of truth. Take solace and joy in the quiet moments, the ways in which Adam has improved. You give thanks for the good days and you love and support him through the bad. Don't you dare start feeding his sickness by affirming his irrational beliefs. You have always been a pillar of strength to your sons, it isn't becoming for you to grow weak now. Sometimes slight improvement in conditions can become more like hinderances rather than gifts. Adam has gotten slightly better than he was; I don't think anyone can fault you for wanting more, or for a reason to attribute his condition to that would allow it to be suddenly fixed. There is no fault in hope but do not allow it to conceal the truth in front of your eyes. Adam is sick and he's likely to stay that way."

Nodding, Ben conceded the conversation but not the nagging thought. What kind of father was he if didn't support his sons in their beliefs? What kind of man abandoned their child, especially when they seemed the most lost?

Though he knew it had been offered with the best of intentions, he was longer certain if he would continue to follow Martin's advice.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

In the following days more snow came.

Falling eagerly from the sky, it collected in gargantuan piles in the landscape surrounding the ranch house as the temperature continued to drop and once again Adam began to favor his time alone.

It should have been a favorable sign, and, in a way, it was. With Hop Sing's symbols painted prominently on the doorframe, Adam was no longer averse to remaining in his bedroom. He spent hours there; it was time he spent mostly alone though never with the door closed. Ben never allowed the door to be closed. It was something had become somewhat of a silent bone of contention between he and his eldest son.

Curiously, Adam wanted the door to remain shut; each time he entered he would close it only to have it immediately reopened by his father or one of his brothers. He looked so disgruntled each time it pushed open, his brows furrowing with distain, defiance glistening in his eyes. He looked so reminiscent of the Adam of before that Ben was always left anticipating the terse worse words his son could say. Fierce statements about being a grown man in need of space and privacy and the freedom to close his own bedroom door. These declarations remained imaginary, however, as Adam remained palpably angry but silent, and the door remained open, untouched after each time its closure was corrected—something Ben verified again and again, traveling up the staircase and down the hallway to check in on him.

Adam always looked the same when his father looked in on him. Sitting in a chair next to the window, his legs curled up beneath him, an open book lay ignored in his lap. Ben wasn't certain when he discovered it wasn't being read, rather just held on to; he wasn't sure when he had noted what the book actually was or that the page in which it was turned to was always the same.

It was the Bible that Adam had begun to cling to; it was the story of Cain and his brother, Abel, that the open book eternally displayed. This was a coincidental detail that bothered Ben when he really thought about it. It reminded him of Peter Kane, a supposed evil man who had been exiled to the desert outside of Eastgate. It made him wonder if Adam had heard the stories about Kane prior to meeting him or what kind of stories he could tell about him if he ever spoke.

Absently toying with the pendant Hop Sing had made, Adam's gaze was set on the frigid landscape outside of the windowpane, his attention focused on whatever he believed lay beyond.

There was something about Adam's eyes that worried Ben. Sparkling with resignation and sadness, ever-so-often a hint of longing could be distinguished, rising above the dull, glassy pools the family had become accustomed to seeing. It was a longing Ben recognized; a solid hint of the old Adam being displayed by the new. His son always had a difficult time enduring winter; cold and short, the days seemed to pass at a sluggish pace; each seeming longer than the one before as the intensity of the weather grounded him in place for too long. It was this same longing in his son's eyes that took Ben by surprise. It frightened him in a way he couldn't explain.

If this Adam chose to leave; if he ran away, became lost in the elements and was never found, he would most certainly die. He was not capable of surviving the way he once had been.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Ben asked gently. Gripping his son's boney shoulder, he held tight. It was an assurance he asserted frequently these days; words he hoped Adam would hear, internalize and believe. "There is nothing you could do or say that would change the way I feel about you. There is no fight you could ever find yourself engaged in which I would not stand by your side."

Adam's gaze didn't falter from the window as he seemingly ignored the words.

"I'm here, Adam," Ben added softly. "I'm not going anywhere." He shook his head sadly. "And, I suppose, neither are you. You know there was a time, not so long ago, when I used to dread what your future held, the kind of difficulties and gifts it would bring you. Now I find myself dreading the very same things only for completely different reasons. You will always have a home here, you know that. I will always do my best to keep you safe and take care of you, and when I'm gone, I have faith that your brothers will do the same. The only question that truly remains is what will you do? Is this the kind of life you want to lead? Is a future where you permanently become someone to be taken care of something you aspire to?"

It wasn't an easy thing to say or ask. But the words had to be spoken; they had to be heard—even if they weren't ever properly acknowledged. Just because Adam had chosen not to speak it didn't excuse him from conversations about the truth. It didn't render him exempt from listening to his father's advice or point-of-view. If anything, it made such conversations more needed, valuable when making decisions about the future.

_What you allow will mostly likely continue_, Doctor Martin's aged words rang in Ben's memory. It was advise given so long ago now but that didn't make it any less true.

_Don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future, _Kane's words sprung readily to mind.

_Mista Adam leave,_ Hop Sing's statement quickly followed.

_I wanted to be alone,_ the memory of Adam's explanation around the campfire chimed in, composing a heart-wrenching conversation that existed somewhere between reality and imagination. The statements had all been said by the respective parties though neither in response to one another nor in the same conversation.

_He become lost_, Hop Sing said.

_It was my decision to go, _Adam said sadly._ It was my mistake._

_What could have happened to make him feel as though he would rather die than live? _Kane taunted.

_I'm the one who's responsible for carrying the burden of what happened, _Adam said.

_He doesn't want to fail you_, Kane said_. He doesn't want you to know the truth._

_It was my fault, _Adam said.

_He is very sick boy,_ Doc Martin's words echoed.

_No sick,_ Hop Sing protested.

_Wanting something to be true does not make it so, _Doc Martin said.

_No confused_, Hop Sing said.

_Adam is sick and he's likely to stay that way, _Doc Martin said.

_He no come back alone, _Hop Sing said firmly.

_Hallucinations aren't real, _Doc Martin disagreed. _If the rest of us can't see them, then they can't possibly be real. _

_I wonder what your son knows about me that you don't?_ Kane asked_. Dead men don't talk, at least not in normal ways_.

Ben's heart skipped in his chest, Kan's words suddenly frightening him in a way they hadn't before. Where the things Adam saw real? Such a thing didn't seem possible. But what if it was?

"I know you see things, son," he said bluntly.

It was an impetuous admission; one which had only escaped him in an effort to prevent any more haunting statements from emerging from his memory. The words had spilled so freely from his mouth, filling him with a feeling of overwhelming rightness. Hop Sing's belief in unseen things had helped Adam improve. What kind of improvements could he experience knowing his father believed?

"I know they frighten you," he continued. "And I know Hop Sing's belief in them comforts you. I don't know why he believes you. If he knows more about what you're experiencing than me or even if he sees them too. I want you to know I believe in your belief. Whatever you're experiencing you're not alone. If a day should ever come when you want to explain to me what it is you see, I want you know that I will listen. I will listen and believe anything you have to say."

Eyes widening, Adam seemed surprised, taken aback by his father's words. Mouth falling open, he didn't say anything, but for the first time in a long time, Ben was certain he wanted to.

He stood there for countless moments; hopelessly waiting, woefully anticipating all the things he wished his son would say. If Adam would just talk then things were destined to turn out okay. If they could just have one conversation, he was certain it would lead to another and then another after that. It would lead to something, wouldn't it? Further understanding and explanation, allotting him proper knowledge to know what to do.

He wanted to know what to do. He wanted Adam to speak, tell him what he saw and what he needed him to do. The ways in which he was able to currently help seemed inadequate in comparison to all the things he felt he should have been able to.

Pressing his lips firmly together, Adam returned his attention to the windowpane.

Squeezing his son's shoulder, Ben tried to dismiss his painful disappointment. "I think it's time for you to rejoin us downstairs," he instructed gently as he forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been sitting up here far too long. You know how we feel about you being alone for prolonged periods of time."

Pulling his hand away, he turned slightly in place, looked at the empty doorway and resigned himself to waiting for his son to adhere to his direction and make a move. A few silent moments passed, neither father nor son's gaze faltering from their respective places.

"Adam," Ben whispered. "It's time to move."

"I heard you."

The words were so quiet, so unexpected that Ben almost believed they had been imagined. Looking at his son with wide eyes, he found Adam staring vacantly at the empty hallway beyond his bedroom door.

"You were calling out for me," Adam added, his words no more than a haunted whisper. "I tried to get to you, but he wouldn't let me go. He told me he'd never let me go. I don't think I really understood what he was saying at the time, but I understand it now."

They were the first words he had said in months. So shocked by their existence, Ben didn't know how to reply. Adam sounded so different than he once had. His voice was soft and resistant, so hesitant yet so sure.

"Do you dream of him, Papa?" Adam asked.

"Who?" Ben asked breathlessly.

"He told me you did."

"Adam, who?"

"Mister Kane."

"Son," Ben said uneasily. "Kane is dead. He couldn't have told you anything."

"Oh, but he does. He talks to me all the time."

"Adam—"

"He said he talks to you too, in your dreams. You shouldn't talk to him. You shouldn't listen to anything he has to say." Face contorting painfully, Adam pulled his gaze away from the doorway and looked nervously at the floor. "He doesn't want me talking to you. He's angry now. I've upset him and now he's going upset me."

Kneeling, Ben took the Bible from Adam's lap, closed it and placed it gently on the floor. He reached for his son's hands, holding them tightly in his own he squeezed, willing for some of his steady strength to transfer into Adam. His hands were ice-cold, limp against his hold. Adam wouldn't look at him; body trembling with fear, he wouldn't lift his tearful gaze from where it had settled and then froze on the floorboards.

There were so many things Ben wanted to ask; so many things he wanted to say and only one which felt vital to confirm. "Peter Kane is who you think you see," he said.

It wasn't a question; it was an answer, one Ben was sure he should have suspected all along.

"I don't _think_ I see anyone," Adam said. "Next time you dream of him you ask him, Papa. Trust me, he'll tell you what you already know. Don't you see?" He was shaking now, his voice becoming more and more panicked with each word. "You have to _see_; you have to _know_ by now that's what he does. He looks inside of your heart and soul, he sees so clearly what you want to hide, and he uses it against you. He knows _everything_, and he uses it to tear you apart and hold you together at the same time."

"Adam, son, I don't understand. Can you tell me what happened? What is happening to make you believe such a thing?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Adam hissed. Attention frozen on the doorway, his eyes widened with fear and glistened with unshed tears. "H-he doesn't like it when I talk."

Cupping Adam's jaw, Ben gently moved his head, forcing his attention away from the doorway and back to him. "Why?" he asked softly. "How does a dead man have any say over what you do?"

Bottom lip quivering, Adam cringed painfully. Shifting uncomfortably, he struggled to pull his remaining hand from his father's grasp, and when he couldn't free it, he began to shake his shake his head. With the movement came the labored breaths, shallow and desperate, as the tears spilled from his eyes and trailed down his cheeks.

Ben was unwilling to allow the question to remain unanswered; he would not allow his son to fall silent again, not after he had lost his voice for so long. Not after having him suddenly speak again. Adam could talk or he could be mute; Ben wouldn't tolerate intermittent mixture of the two, the picking and choosing of moments to speak or torture them with silence.

"Adam, I am your father and as such I am telling you—I am _ordering_ you—to speak to me."

"I-I can't," Adam whimpered.

"You can."

Shaking his head, Adam's gaze froze on the doorway once more and he flinched. Body quaking with fear, he began to cry. His breaths came in convulsive gasps, each inhale a thick hiccup, each exhale a wall, the low almost melodic hum of a dreadful scream too inhibited to be properly projected. Pressing his feet against the floorboards, his knees bobbed wildly up and down, shaking his hands in his lap as his father struggled to hold them still. Ever so slowly, he began to shift on his seat, rocking his torso back and forth.

It was self-soothing motion, something which was more suitable for a young child than a grown man. It was the rocking that prompted Ben to finally let go of his son. Looking between Adam and the empty doorway, he frowned, feeling a fury began to build in his chest. Fierce and refractory, it prompted him to do the only thing he could think of. He stood, stalked to the doorway, and slammed the door shut with such force that it seems to shake the room around them, rattling the picture frames which hung on the walls.

Who was this Peter Kane? Real or imaginary, dead or alive, what right did he have to torture his son? What was the hold he had on Adam? And why was Adam allowing such a thing? How could be possibly listen to Kane over his father? How could he follow a dead man's direction and why would he want to?

He returned to his son's side swiftly, grasping the armrests of the chair in which Adam sat, he pulled it away from the window, reorienting it so the back was facing the closed the door and the front the wall. Kneeling in front of his son once more, Adam had nothing else to focus his attention on other than his father.

Grasping Adam's hands, Ben squeezed tightly, forcing himself to take a few deep, calming breaths. Adam's sobs seemed to fill the room, echoing in the silence around them. Never once in his son's life had Ben ever told him not to cry and he didn't intend start now. He wouldn't dare shame him like that, not after and on top of everything else.

They remained like that for a while before Adam's cries eventually calmed, before Ben let go of his son's hands, finally trusting himself to utilize a reasonable tone of voice.

"It's just you and me, Adam," he said. "Right here, right now. So, you tell me what's happening here. You tell me what's going on."

Sniffling, Adam pulled the edges of his shirt-sleeves over hands, swiping them over his wet cheeks as he shook his head and shrugged.

"No," Ben said. "That's not good enough. Not anymore. You use your words; you use your words now and then you don't stop using them. Don't you dare stop talking now that you've finally begun."

"He doesn't want me to talk," Adam whispered. His voice was dry, left broken and gruff from sobs. "He doesn't like it when I talk."

"I want you to talk."

"He doesn't care about what you want."

"What do you care about?"

"Nothing," Adam whispered, his brows knitting with sadness. "Not anymore."

"I don't believe that."

"He doesn't care about what you believe."

"_He_ meaning Kane?" Ben asked. "Or _he_ meaning you?"

Adam shrugged.

"Ahh," Ben scolded. "Words."

"Him... Me..." Adam shrugged again. "We're so intertwined at this point. Does it really matter anymore?"

"Yes."

Watching his Adam's lip quiver once more, Ben wasn't sure if it was his determination or something else which had prompted the resurgence of tears. It didn't matter either way, because his response was the same regardless.

"Talk to me, Adam; I'm right here. Tell me how we got here. What is making you act the way you are?"

"I don't want to be like this," Adam whispered, his tone slightly crazed, cracking with strain. "Do you honestly think this is how I want to be? I-I'm not doing this. Why would I do this? I want to be different. I want to... to be the same... _you_ don't know how much _I_ want to go back to before. But there is no before, not now, not anymore. There's just after, the horrible dreading of what comes next. I know what this looks like. I-I know what you think, what _everyone_ must think, but I am not crazy, Papa. I'm not. You don't see him but he... he's there."

Papa. The repetitive use of the aged byname was not lost on Ben. He suspected the determined emotions and willful corollaries which had led his son to utilize the weaponized word before, but he wondered what its purpose was now. If it even had one. Or if its consistent presence was a testament of his son's terror.

"I'm _not_ crazy," Adam repeated, his face pinching with agony. "I'm not."

"I never said you were," Ben said, his voice deep and soothing. "Nobody in this house has ever said you were."

"I don't want to be like this. I-I want to go back, but he won't let me. He won't let me get better; he won't let me change. He won't let me _eat_; he won't let me _sleep_. He won't leave me _alone_. He just keeps lingering and following and then he gets inside of my head and I-I can't get him out. I c-can't shake him loose no matter what I do. He won't let me go. He's never going to let me go!"

Gaze abruptly snapping to the closed door, Adam's eyes widened with fear. It looked as though he was listening to something only he could hear. It was as though there was someone—something—on the other side of the door that only he could perceive.

"He doesn't want me talking to you," Adam repeated, his voice a low, trembling hiss. He had said the words before but it as though this was the moment he was realizing the outcome of what he was doing was something to be truly feared. "He's behind that door right now. He's listening and he's going to remember every word I'm saying. When you finally open the door again, he's going to be there, watching, waiting for me to leave, and when I do, he's going to hurt me. He's going to make me do something I don't want to do."

"I won't let him do that," Ben said. They were words which were quickly thought of and impetuously said but left him immediately wondering how the promise would be achieved. How could he fight something he didn't see? How could he possibly protect Adam from something which potentially only existed in his mind?

"You can't stop him!" Adam said.

"Son—"

"You don't understand! There's nothing you can do. What done is done; you can't stop him. You can't save me. You can't!"

Ben reached for Adam's arms but he pulled them away, waiving them through the air, punctuating his hysterical statements.

"He's not going to let me go!"

"Let me help you."

"You can't!"

"Adam, please."

"You can't...! You can't...!"

"Son."

"You can't...! You can't...! You can't...!"

"Shhh," Ben was forced to soothe, after struggling and failing to pull his son into a calming embrace.

Breath coming in haggard, tearful gasps, Adam refused to be comforted or placated. All his father's efforts to establish a physical connection were violently shrugged off. He stood abruptly, lifting his hands and placing them on sides of his head, fingers burrowing into his disheveled hair. He turned in place in overwhelmed manner, his eyes wide, wild and full of tears, before hesitating and staring at the closed door, horror etched on his face.

"You can't help me," he whispered. The words were almost too soft to be heard, his shaking voice nearly too thick with tears to be understood. "He's not going to let you; he's never going to let me go."

He stood for the briefest of moments, tears dripping from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks only be absorbed into his beard. Then, slowly he began to walk backwards, his attention not wavering from the door. He took step after step until his back hit the wall; jumping, he flinched, then emitted a hollow, wet gasp as his legs gave out beneath him and he began to slide to a seated position on the floor.

"Tell me what I can do," Ben pleaded. "If I can't help you then tell me what I can do instead."

It was a helpless statement to which he received no reply. Arms wrapped around his legs, head resting on his knees, Adam's tears had once again rendered him incapable of speech.

Xx

"He can't stay in that room forever."

It was Little Joe who stated the obvious as he stood between Ben and Hoss on the opposite end of the hallway as Adam's closed bedroom door.

"I didn't say he would remain there forever," Ben said. "I said he and I agreed he could remain there for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow depending on how the night goes."

"With the door closed," Hoss added worriedly. "I don't like it, Pa."

"Neither do I," Joe said.

"Oh, and I suppose you both think I do," Ben said.

"You're the one who agreed to it," Joe said.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Ben said.

"Then why agree to it?" Joe asked.

"Because Adam asked him to," Hoss said. He looked at the closed door longingly. "He really spoke to ya, Pa?"

"He did," Ben said.

"How did he sound?" Hoss pressed.

"He sounded..." Ben hesitated, wanting so badly to say Adam had sounded normal, as poised and valorous as he ever did. He couldn't lie. "Lucid," he said finally. "He sounded... aware, certain about what he was saying but afraid."

"You can't blame him for that," Joe said. "I know how I would feel if I were seeing things, I can't imagine that's the kind of thing older brother would handle well." He cringed. "Well, obviously he hasn't been handling it too well. That's something we all already knew, I guess."

"At least now we know why," Hoss said. He looked at Ben. "He really said it was that dead man that he sees?"

"In so many words," Ben sighed. The seriousness of the conversation was beginning to set in, weighing on his heart and leaving him feeling exhausted and old.

Adam did see things. It was a damning notion that seemed easier to accept when it was still a suspicion. How were any of them supposed to help him with that? How could they begin to contend with something unseen?

"The good news is Adam's talking," Hoss said. "No matter what you think about the things he's said, you have to admit that's a mite better than him stayin' silent. At least this way we know what he's been thinkin' and that's the only thing that's gonna help us help him. Maybe we can talk him out of believing in the stuff he sees. There's gotta be a way to talk him out of it."

Looking between his father, brother, and the closed door, Joe didn't appear quite so convinced. "What do we do now, Pa?" he asked, his eyes pleading for his father to lead them in a positive direction. "How are we going to convince Adam to give up on anything he believes?"

Shaking his head, Ben didn't know, but he was determined to think of something.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

The night succeeding Adam's break in silence was the first in long while Ben didn't dream about Kane.

That wasn't to say he didn't dream. He dreamed a lot. He dreamed of Adam and the way he once was; the nights they had spent sitting together, staring up at the stars, first when he was a young boy during their travels West and then later when Adam was grown and they would quietly sneak away to gaze up at those same stars during cattle drives and the yearly round up. They were peaceful images, welcome gifts in comparison to what his dreams had recently become. And flanked between these dreams, Ben dreamed a new dream. One which was decidedly different than any he had experienced before; it felt real, so much like a memory he should have be allowed to experience in real time. There was no cliff, no dark night sky, no taunting statements, no Peter Kane, and no Adam.

There was only Elizabeth.

Her long dark hair was unpinned, cascading curls which hung loosely, well past her bosom and down the middle of her back. Dressed in what Ben immediately recognized as what had been her favorite summer dress, she wore no shoes or socks upon her feet. With her dimpled smile and kind eyes, she was as beautiful as she had always been and old as she would ever be. She was over a decade younger than their son was now, a painfully odd thing to consider. She hadn't lived long enough to see her twenty-third birthday or Adam's first. She had died too young—as all of his wives had— leaving him to grow old without her.

Standing before her, he found he had become old and she had remained young, as luminous and radiant as she had been on their wedding day.

_"__My Benjamin,"_ she beamed. Grasping his hands in her own, she stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss upon his cheek.

_"__My God,"_ Ben said, his voice quiet and full of awe. _"You're a child."_

_"__And you are an old man,"_ she quipped warmly. _"You're older than my father was when we were married. What is to be thought about such a thing?"_

_"__I'd rather not think of it at all." _

She smiled. _"The years have served you well, Ben. They may have aged you but you are no less handsome than you were when we were young. You're distinguished, wisened by the weight of all those years." _

_"__I may be distinguished but I don't feel very wise,"_ Ben said. _"At least not as of late" _

_"__Ah,"_ she said knowingly. _"And what exactly is to be done about our Adam?" _

_"__Our Adam,"_ Ben repeated. He was saddened by the statement. How many times had she fondly said it when she was alive, lovingly caressing her burgeoning stomach with her fingertips? Far too many to count. She had seemed to know their baby then, loving him fiercely and deeply long before the day he was born. _"He worries me."_

_"__You're not wrong to be worried,"_ she said. _"After all, he is in a state. His behavior is startling, even he is aware of that, but he is not as changed by his time in that desert as you may think. His experiences, his perceptions are genuine even if they do not appear tangible to you. He is neither mad nor confused." _

_"__He's afraid,"_ Ben said. It was a simple explanation he was certain she was already privy to.

_"__And what is to be done about his fear? How can you help him fight the power of something unseen?" _

Ben shook his head. The question weighed too heavily on him for there to be an easily distinguished answer.

_"__Your voice is like a lighthouse horn, deep and reassuring,"_ she said. _"Use it wisely to guide him through this storm." _

_"__What shall I say?" _

_"__Nothing that hasn't already been said at one time or another. Talk to him, with him. Do not allow him to lose his voice now that he's finally summoned the courage to find it again. You always had such powerful instincts as a man, great intuition as a father. Trust yourself. Have faith that this is a fight that can be won." _

Attention shifting to the fireplace, she smiled, took his hand, and led him to it.

_"__Out of all the many things you've built this is my favorite," _she said. _"Build me a fire, Ben. Let us sit ourselves in front of it and allow the heat to warm our hearts and souls." _

Resting upon the short wooden table, she sat cross-legged, pulling her feet up beneath her, enveloping her legs beneath the hem of her dress. Elbows place on her knees, hands pressed up against her cheeks, she leaned forward, watching him with great interest as he did what was asked. It was an unseemly pose for a respectable woman, too cavalier, too ingenious to be displayed by most. It only served to remind him of her age and that of his eldest son, a boy who had all-too-quickly become a man but who still mirrored his mother's quiet thoughtfulness and very occasional uninhibited pose.

_"__I used to visit Adam in his dreams,"_ she said, her tone shifting with regret.

_"__Used to?"_

Ben didn't know Adam had dreamed of Elizabeth. He didn't conceive such a thing was possible as Adam had no memory of his mother. He hadn't been allotted time with her; she had died less than an hour after he had been born.

_"__Before the desert,"_ she said._ "Before that devilish Kane. Our Adam used to call out to me and I'd come and we'd talk and talk about his life; we'd about the way things were and how he could go about making them different if he wanted them to be." _

_"__And now?" _

_"__And now," _she sighed, _"such a thing isn't allowed. That man won't allow it."_ She gazed upon him, her eyes sparking with seriousness. _"Trust your dreams, your instincts and your heart. Trust in what Adam was able to tell you. Kane is a devil, Ben. He has his fingers embedded into our Adam and he isn't going to let go without a fight. You dreamed of cliffs long before Adam left for Eastgate, but what you don't know is that Adam dreamed of Kane long before he met him. He went into that desert knowing what he would find but not how it would affect him."_

Though the idea seemed ludicrous, Ben knew it did nothing to affect its truth. He thought about his son's determination to leave on the drive to Eastgate and the hug he had gifted him before he left—an apology, of sorts, for a decision yet to be made.

_"__He didn't expect to come back,"_ Ben said.

_"__I tried to convince him not to go," _she said regretfully._ "I tried to tell him there was nothing of value to find out there. He wouldn't listen." _She shook her head._ "Our stubborn, stubborn boy." _

_"__A trait he inherited from you." _

_"__And you." _

_"__Mind your grip on our son, Ben. Be careful isn't too light or loose. If it is too loose you will lose him completely. If it's too tight, you'll hold him in place forever but he'll find other ways of leaving you. He's always found other ways." _

_"__I know." _

_"__Things always get worse before they get better. Adam spoke today which you can take as a good sign. But what's on the horizon? Is Adam finally speaking sign of something better or worse?" _

Ben wasn't sure. He had waited so long for Adam to speak but the things he had to say were worrisome at best. He still wasn't eating as much as he should; he spent the nights in his own bed but he didn't seem to obtain any actual rest. Was Adam finally talking amongst all these other lingering bothersome behaviors a good sign or bad? Ben was hard pressed to come up with satisfying suppositions to support either conjectures.

_"__I don't know,"_ he said. His uncertainty was the only thing he was certain of._ "I don't know how to help him."_

_"__That's okay,"_ Elizabeth said, _"when the time is right, you will."_

Extending her hand, she invited him to sit next to her, and they sat, hand-in-hand gazing at the roaring fire before them.

In the middle of the still night, Ben woke, still feeing warmed by the flames of the fire of his dream. Laying lax against his chest, the hand he had used to hold Elizabeth's was still gently clenched. For a moment it felt as though he was still holding on her. He could feel the smoothness of her skin, the weight of her delicate hand in his own. Then in an instant it was gone. With nothing to impede them, his fingers moved, shifting his hand into a tight fist. Mild but unconscious, the quick movement was enough to startle him, prompting him to sit up, lift his hand in front of his face and look upon it in awe.

This was a feeling and dream that quickly faded and was forgotten by sunrise.

Xx

Adam was not in his bedroom come morning. Sometime during the night, he had made the decision to, once again, seek respite in Hoss's bed. It was a disappointing development though not a completely unexpected one after having finally spoken the day before, sharing with his father the truth of what who and what he saw. Kane didn't like for him to talk—Adam had made that abundantly clear. It was obvious he had been anticipating repercussions—real or imagined—associated with using his voice. What those were or could be, Ben wasn't sure. But he was not surprised to find his eldest son in the company of his middle one as Hoss's physical size and strength provided a very specific comfort to calm fear and frayed nerves.

Adam rose when Hoss did. Gaze averted to the floor, he retired wordlessly to his bedroom where he remained. He made no indication—with words or otherwise—that being asked to leave the seemingly protective confines was something he would take kindly to. Much to the discontent of his other two sons, Ben didn't try to emancipate Adam from the bedroom. It was a decision made silently which was more accepted by Hoss than Joe.

"I don't understand, Pa," Joe said, his eyes shiningly indignantly as stood on the opposite side of the desk. "Adam ain't going get better if all we do is leave him alone."

"I thought we had decided not to place expectations upon Adam with regards to his behavior and recovery," Ben reminded.

"Ah, that was before," Joe scoffed.

"Before what?"

"Before he talked," Joe said emphatically. "Before we knew what was bothering him. Before we knew nothing, Pa, and now..." he paused, swiping his hands through the air as though he was struggling to grasp the right words.

"We know more than we did then," Hoss quietly provided. Leaning on the wall near the grandfather clock, he looked between his father and little brother. "Which still ain't a lot."

"We know who think he sees," Joe said.

"Yeah but how do we help him with that?" Hoss asked. "We don't know nothing of value about that man Kane. And we still don't know what happened between him and Adam."

"But Adam is _talking_," Joe said as though the development alone was enough to solve their problems.

"He talkin' to you?" Hoss challenged.

Joe frowned. "Well... no..."

"'Cause he ain't talkin' to me," Hoss said, a mixture of conflict and disappointment etched on his face. Although he had previously voiced concern about Adam spending the night alone and in his own bedroom, something about having his older brother return to his bed in the middle of the night had been deflating, robbing him of any hope the knowledge of Adam speaking had instilled. "Not last night or this morning, he didn't say so much as word to me and I gave him plenty of chances."

"Give it time, Hoss," Ben said.

Hoss snorted sadly and shook his head. It was clear what he left unsaid. He was growing weary of allotting Adam time—they all were—of waiting for things to change or remain the same. The improvement of his behavior felt circular, encouraging and productive at first, then detrimental and regressive. For every step Adam took in the right direction, it immediately felt like he took five steps backwards. Yes, he had spoken, but it didn't seem likely he would continue doing such a thing. Yes, he had told Ben what he was afraid of, but it didn't seem probable he would allow himself to be liberated from his fear. It was deep-rooted, connected to something undiscernible.

"He's afraid," Joe said. "I can understand that. If I was haunted by the ghost of some asshole, I'd be scared too."

"Joe," Ben chastised with a frown. "Remain respectful with your words."

"Ghosts ain't real," Hoss snorted, ignoring both Joe's slip of the tongue and his father's reprimand. His discontent was building, stifled frustration over Adam's worrisome behavior that couldn't be discussed with his older brother. Given the current state of affairs, he couldn't hold Adam responsible for anything; he couldn't expect a long conversation to glean answers or even a tense fight to clear the air. He couldn't expect anything from Adam, because he had become unpredictable. But Joe remained as reliable as he had ever been. If it was a fight Hoss wanted, then it would be obliged.

"How do you know?" Joe scoffed, his brows furrowing in annoyance. "They could be."

"They ain't," Hoss maintained.

"What if they are?" Joe countered.

"Come on, Joe," Hoss said. "How old are you, anyhow?"

Old enough not to feel properly scandalized when curse words slipped from his mouth in front of his father, Ben thought. It didn't seem right for any of his boys to ever reach such an age.

"Adam believes it," Joe said stubbornly. "And he's way older than me!"

"That don't mean nothing," Hoss said firmly.

"How can it not mean anything, when it's always meant something before? Adam the smartest out of the three of us. He's always been the smartest."

"That don't have nothing to do with this!"

"How can it not? He ain't dumb. He's still the same person he always was. If you can't see that then maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do."

Hoss flinched, absorbing the statement like a punch. "Quit Joe," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "I don't want to talk about this no more."

"Why?" Joe spat. "Because you know you're wrong about him?"

"Because I said drop it," Hoss growled.

"_Both_ of you _drop it_," Ben directed, looking warily between his sons.

"Adam is hardest person in the world to convince of anything that doesn't make sense," Joe continued on angrily, ignoring his father for the second time. "If he says he sees a ghost then I believe him. It has to be real."

"Boy have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?" Hoss demanded. "Do you not have eyes and brain in your head to understand what's going on here?" Pulling himself off the wall, he stood tall, his face reddened with frustration. "Adam's mind is sick! Don't you dare go using him as an example of anything right now!"

"He's my brother and I'll use him as an example however I want!"

"Be quiet!"

"No!"

"_You both be quiet_!" Ben growled, the deepness of his voice a clear warning to calm down. "Hoss, Joe, do we not have enough facing us already that we have to make it worse by fighting amongst ourselves about things that can't be solved?"

He wasn't certain if it was the threat of Hoss's tone or his own that caused Joe to abandon the conversation. Either way, it didn't matter, because mouth snapping shut, Joe pressed his lips firmly together.

Oddly, it was Hoss who remained intent on not heeding his father's warning. He looked at Ben, sadness glistening in his blue eyes. "How come I always got to be the one to say the hard things? Why do I have to be the one to convince the two of you about anything havin' to do with Adam? Do you think I like sayin' these things? You think I like knowing that Adam is the way that he is? Do you think I don't want to believe the things he says? Because I do. But I can't because he's sick. Yesterday we all knew that, and now, after one conversation with Pa we're gonna just ignore all the ways in which he's not acting right and declare him fit as a fiddle."

"That not what Joe is saying," Ben said.

"He ain't not saying it," Hoss said.

"I never said he was _fit_," Joe said. "I only said I believe in what he says he sees."

"_Ghosts ain't real_, Joe," Hoss said firmly. "Dead men do not talk and they certainly don't follow the livin' around, hauntin' them and such." He shook his head. "Don't you dare be tellin' Adam you believe in the nonsense neither. Lord only knows what kind of behavior you'll be encouraging if you do."

Though he couldn't have known it, Hoss's direction mirrored the advice Doc Martin had given when Ben confided his suspicions about Adam seeing things. Ben had rejected it at the time, but did it hold any more weight coming from his son rather than a friend? His own flesh and blood, someone whose love for Adam rivaled that of his own?

He had told Adam he would believe whatever he had to say; he was certain, it was one of the statements which had finally implored Adam to speak. How could he possibly go back on that now?

"It's real to Adam," Ben said. "It doesn't necessarily have to be real to us but that doesn't negate the fact that it's very real to him."

It was a truth that couldn't be denied. It existed either as a testament to the truth of a ghost or of Adam's mental decline. Briefly, Ben wasn't ashamed to admit—just to himself— that he was hopeful that the ghost of Peter Kane existed. If that was the case then it meant Adam wasn't truly sick, just impeded, held captive by a spirit that saw fit to torture him. But if that was the case, was it truly better than the alternative? Looking after a son whose mind was ill was one thing but fostering one who was being haunted by a dead man seemed arduous, formidable, and impossible.

Such a thing was impossible, wasn't it? What was the purpose of entertaining the notion? Dead was dead. Ghosts weren't real. The spirits of evil men didn't linger after vacating their bodies, and they surely had no interest in remaining behind after they had passed. Or did they?

_Devil of a man, that Kane_, the Eastgate Sheriff's statement rang in Ben's ears, awakening a trio of Kane's questions which never seemed stray far from his thoughts.

_What happened in the desert, Mister Cartwright? What did he do to me? What did I do to him?_

Ben didn't know the answers to any of these questions. But he knew he had to find out.

Xx

"What happened in the desert, Adam?" Ben asked. "What did Kane do to you? What did you do to him? What are the decisions and events that led us all here?"

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Adam ignored the questions; his attention remained fixed on the open book laying open in front of him. Elbows place on his knees, one hand was pressed up against his beard covered cheek, while the fingers of his other idly fiddled with the carved amulet hung around his neck. Hop Sing had repainted the symbols on the backs of his hands that morning; the fresh black ink stood in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin.

For a moment, Ben wondered what they meant—what any of it _meant_. His dreams, the things he thought he knew and the others he didn't. The unshakable faith Hop Sing had in Adam's startling beliefs, and the comfort Adam took from Hop Sing's efforts to soothe the situation.

"Adam," Ben prompted gently. "I would like you to answer."

Adam neither looked uncomfortable nor at ease, nor did he seem inclined or willing to speak to his father about anything.

"You spoke yesterday," Ben reminded. "So, your extended silence is not likely to tolerated today."

It was a mild allusion of consequences; a gentle reminder that bad behavior always came with the possibility of unfavorable results. Such a warning would have worked on the Adam of years past—as empty as it had become when he reached adulthood—but it did nothing to convince this Adam to utter a word.

"What happened last night?" Ben asked. "You were insistent to be allowed to remain in this room, alone with the door shut. Then morning came and found you with Hoss. It doesn't make sense, Adam. You alluded that Kane couldn't enter this room and that's why you've come to favor it so much. But you leaving last night suggests that might not be the truth."

It was the first time Adam's nighttime travels had been commented on aloud—to Adam or anyone else. If it didn't invite a rush of embarrassment which would result in a response then Ben didn't know what would. It wasn't becoming of man Adam's age to be seeking respite in his younger brother's bed. It wasn't seemingly for such a thing to be taking place at all.

"It doesn't make sense," Ben said. "Even you must see that."

He was no longer certain if he was talking about Adam sleeping in Hoss's bed or the situation as a whole. It didn't make sense when he thought about it rationally, unsentimentally, as though Adam was not his son rather someone else's, his actions not looked upon in any particular way, not colored by the contrasting memories of the past. When people died, they were gone. Men didn't break without ample reason to.

"What happened in the desert?" he asked again. "What happened between you and Kane, Adam?"

Turning the page in his book, Adam took no notice of the question.

Expelling a sigh, Ben sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, a conscious action meant as a reminder for him to keep his frustration in check. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he lost control of his tone of voice or the questions he meant to ask meticulously. Walking to the bed and sitting carefully on the edge, he couldn't help feeling that Hoss's earlier frustration was now becoming his own. In some ways, it was the same and in others it was different. Hoss was tired of circular conversations, of not having some kind of predictability in how Ben would handle Adam, what kinds of things he would and wouldn't allow him to do. Hoss was longing for some kind of stability and predictability—both were things Ben knew could never be granted under such circumstances. Not without answers. Not without obtaining new information that would allow them to see the situation for what it really was.

Was Adam truly sick? Or was something else going on?

Rubbing his hands idly against his thighs, Ben couldn't help feeling he should know more than he did. That maybe he did know more than he could readily recall, that he had access to some elusive detail he had been gifted to help liberate Adam from whatever had grabbed a hold of him, held him down and remained intent on never letting him go.

_He's not going to let me go! _Adam had screamed. But Kane was dead, how could he hang on to anyone or anything? How could such a thing be possible or allowed?

_Do you dream of him, Papa?_ Adam had asked. _He told me you did_.

This was a question Ben had dismissed at the time. He had been so overcome, first by relief as Adam spoke for the first time in months, then by apprehension as he couldn't reconcile the things his son was saying. Sane men didn't talk the way Adam did; they didn't dissolve into hysterical tears, so frightened and intimidated by things no one else could see. Rational men didn't starve themselves or hurt themselves or stop talking. Then again, they didn't seem to have knowledge of other people's bad dreams either.

Adam couldn't have known about his dreams of Kane. There was no rational explanation for his awareness of such a thing. Of course, rationality was something that seemed to have left him a long time ago.

"You asked me if I dreamed of Kane," Ben whispered. "I do."

Adam looked at him then, his eyes seemingly searching his father's face for verification of something Ben couldn't define. Looking into his son's searching eyes, thinking about dreams of Kane and otherwise, Ben's dream of Elizabeth sprung to the forefront of his mind. All at once he recalled what it had felt like to sit next to her and the things she had said.

_I don't know how to help him,_ Ben had admitted.

_That's okay,_ she had said, _when the time is right you will._

Looking at Adam, Ben prayed the right time had come. For the first time in a long time he didn't think about the words as they left his mouth. He let them come, flowing naturally from his heart.

"You dreamed of Kane too," he said softly. "You went into that desert knowing what you would find. You went looking for him. That is why you were intent on being allowed to go on the drive to Eastgate. You didn't plan on returning. That is why you hugged me before you left."

Jaw tightening, Adam swallowed thickly, his eyes filling with tears. The showing of his emotion wasn't prompted by being overwhelmed or fear. It was sadness mixed with grief and the slightest hint of guilt. It was then, Ben knew for certain he was on the right path, that he had finally found the correct things to say.

"I didn't want you to go on the drive because I had dreams too," Ben continued. "I dreamed of you standing on the edge of a cliff, surrounded by white rock and desert. I dreamed you were preparing to jump. You asked if I could catch you. If I would be able to make it to the bottom in time. I didn't understand what the dreams meant at the time and I'm not sure I really do now. I don't know if they were a gift or curse, something to be heeded or dismissed. At the time, I did my best to dismiss them, now I know that was wrong to do, because I think maybe that trip to Eastgate was you climbing that cliff and now you're standing on its edge, waiting to jump, waiting for me to either hold you back or catch you at the bottom. You asked me a long time ago if I could hold on to you and I'm doing my best. I know Kane is standing right next to you on the edge; he is inching you further and further away from me. I can feel you slipping through my fingers. I don't think you want to jump, but I don't you don't feel like you have a choice anymore."

He extended his hands, palming Adam's cheeks and wiping at his tears with his thumbs. Leaning into the touch, Adam's posture loosened, his legs crumpling the pages of the book in front of him in the bed. Lifting his hands, he grasped Ben's arms, holding them and his father's gaze as though his very life depended upon it.

"And whether the Kane you see now is real or imagined, I don't know if it truly matters," Ben said. "Because ultimately the fight is the same. If he is some figment of your imagination or a ghost, it doesn't change what you have to do. You say you don't want to be like this, that you're not the one making yourself act the way you are, but you're the only one with the power to change what you're doing right now. If Kane isn't real then you're going to have to find a way to truly convince yourself of that. And if he is, then you're going to have to find a way to live knowing that he's there. You're going to have to find a way to shake the hold he has on you; you're going to have the courage to ignore the things he says to you. You say he's not willing to let you go, but I want you to know that neither am I. I'm on this edge with you, son. I can only hold you back for so long, but trust me when I say that I will _always_ be there to catch you. I will do _anything _that is required to make it to the bottom in time."

As soon the words left his mouth, Ben knew they had been right. He could tell by the way Adam was looking at him. Though his son's eyes were full of tears, he could see relief sparkling in their depths. He could practically see Adam mulling over all the things he had said, weighing and considering each in effort to allow himself to believe them. Ben hoped his words had carried enough weight to be believed.

Eventually, Adam let go of his father's arms and shifted his weight, moving to sit beside Ben with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, his sock-covered feet firmly planted on the floor. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat, smoothed his hands over his face and focused his attention on the floorboards between his feet.

"Okay," he whispered.

It was only a single word, but it meant more to Ben than any other he had ever heard in his life.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

"Pa," Hoss said. Standing in the hallway, he grasped Ben's upper arm and held him in place, his expression decidedly conflicted. "I never knew you dreamed about Adam trying jump off the edge of a cliff."

Casting Hoss an exasperated look, Ben moved his free arm, grasping the knob on Adam's bedroom door and pulling it shut before looking Hoss up and down. "That was a private conversation," he whispered, "between your brother and I. Have you been hiding out here the whole time?"

"I'm sorry," Hoss said. The apology sounded more knee-jerk than genuine; an automatic response that had been cultivated throughout the years meant to placate the first hint of his father's disapproval.

It did what it was intended to.

"It's alright," Ben said. He couldn't blame Hoss for eavesdropping, not after all that had happened, not with the tension he was feeling about Adam's current state. After all, hadn't he been the one to tell Hoss that there were to be no secrets between them where Adam was concerned? That was weeks—months—ago but that didn't make the order any less valid. If he was expecting full-disclosure from his younger sons where his oldest one was concerned, then wasn't it reasonable they expect the same from their father? And besides, if Adam knew about his dreams of Kane and the cliff, what was point of hiding it?

"No," Hoss said seriously. "It ain't."

"Son, it's—"

"Because that dream you been having about Adam and the cliff ain't no dream. It really happened."

Ben felt the breath rush from his chest, leaving it empty only to be filled by dread. It wasn't possible for his dream to be real. He had never come upon Adam on the edge of a cliff—not a _real_ cliff. The Adam of before, the man who he had been prior to Peter Kane and the desert, would never have done such frightful a thing. And the Adam of now had never been allotted the chance. He had gone missing that one day, sure, but they had found him at Lake Tahoe; he had been surrounded by water, not jagged rock.

"It's true," Hoss said morosely.

"When? Why on earth did you never _say _anything?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was important." Cringing, Hoss let go of his father's arm. "Nah, that ain't true," he added his voice becoming quiet. "I think I always knew it was but I reckon I just never found the right way to tell you. I guess, I always thought Adam would find a way to tell you himself, that is, if he ever remembered doin' it in the first place."

"Lord Almighty, boy, will you make sense?"

Hoss looked him for a moment, his face contorting sadly. "You really don't know when Adam would have wanted to do that?" The question was stated in even tone but it was his eyes that declared Ben should have already deducted the period of time being alluded to.

Shaking his head, Ben was agonizingly uncertain. He couldn't seem to recall. When in his life had Adam ever been in such a state that he would be implored to stand on the edge of cliff intending to jump? It was such a foreign question; one which seemed so unsuitable to even ask—because the Adam of now would never be allowed to do such a thing, and the Adam of before was too dependable, too commonsensical to ever want to.

Except for when he hadn't been dependable or commonsensical, a small voice whispered in the depths of Ben's mind. That horrible period of time when his regret and anguish seemed intent on tearing him apart. It was a period of time Kane had alluded to in his dreams, but Ben hadn't been tolerant of discussing it. He hadn't wanted to discuss it. Not with Adam or either of his other two sons, not with anyone else—and especially not with Kane.

"At wasn't long after we buried Ross and Del," Hoss said. "It was after Adam bought their land at auction, after he left home and decided up living on it. After he got in trouble in Carson City and then in town with Sheriff Coffee and he was forced to come home for a bit. After he became so sick with fever that he didn't have control of himself and he returned to the Silver Dollar and set both the barn and house on fire."

Nearly two years ago, Adam's grief had made him reckless; his anger, resentment, and frustration over how things had always been destined to be had served as a haunting, unsettling rival for how he had wanted to them to be. Unbearable pain had led Adam to drink and fight too much; it led him to leave home. Ben had been so afraid of losing him then. He was so consumed by fear that Adam was following in his grandfather's footsteps and becoming a drunkard. When he didn't worry about the amount and frequency in which his son was drinking, he worried Adam would become too liquored to think clearly and get himself killed. And when he didn't worry about either of those things, he worried about something else.

_The devil was in Ross Marquette_, that was what Joe the Preacher had once said—something which Kane had been quick to remind Ben in his dreams—and shortly after Ross's death, the preacher had said the same about Adam, because the time which followed Ross and Delphine's deaths had had been a living nightmare.

_Do you remember what the time that came after was like? _Kane had once asked Ben in a dream, his words implying he would be fortunate enough to forget. He would never forget.

"The day Adam burned the Silver Dollar to the ground," Hoss continued, "he stood on the edge of the cliff where he shot Ross dead fixing to jump. I came upon him on it. He was sick out of his mind, talkin' about the devil and such. About how nobody would understand what Ross knew before he died, what Adam thought he was beginning to understand himself. He said sometimes there's no stopping what's meant to be. If a bad thing wants to happen it will. If the devil wants to find you, he can. There's no stopping him. No changing what's meant to be. Standing on the edge of that cliff, Adam said I couldn't catch him. He said I shouldn't even try."

"He was planning on jumping?" Ben asked numbly.

"Yes, sir. I do believe if I wouldn't have come upon him then he would have ended up on the bottom of that cliff. He was so dadburned sick, Pa. Remember? The mightiness of the fever burning through his body wasn't allowin' him to think straight. He was so unsteady on his feet; if I wouldn't grabbed ahold of him, he would have fell."

"But you were there to hold on and pull him back from the edge."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't tell me where you found him, what he said or did?"

Shrugging weakly, Hoss expelled a deep sigh. "Oh, Pa," he said softly. "I don't know why. I guess, it just didn't seem all important after Adam's sickness passed. He quit drinking and running away, and I guess, I didn't want to make him feel bad about much of anything because I was afraid he'd set his sights on drinkin' and running again. I thought if he truly had recollection of standing on that cliff then he woulda talked to you about it, eventually. He talks to you about everything."

"Not everything," Ben said. Not even close. "He never talked to me about _that_."

Adam had become incredibly ill. Fever had ravaged his body and held his mind captive and it was what led him home. After his sickness, Adam didn't talk to Ben about much of anything. He recovered; he stayed out of trouble and mostly at home. But he was different than he had been before. He was quiet and distant. He became more careful and reserved. He wasn't the same. There was a distinct difference between who he had been and who he became. It was then his need to leave home truly became apparent. It was as though he couldn't tolerate remaining in place for more than a week. He began favoring business trips over being home, and anytime travel was needed Ben began delegating it to him. He chose him for those trips over his other sons because he knew the truth. That dreaded day was closer than it had ever been; someday was approaching quicker than it ever had. What he could offer him, the life and legacy he had built was ceasing to appease him.

Adam was born a wanderer, but it was his pain over what had happened to Ross that gave birth to his need to run. He couldn't stay where he was, not forever. Not for long. The memories of what he happened were consuming him; there was too much pain for him to contend with. Ben could feel fateful day approaching; it was becoming closer and closer with each minute that passed. That dreaded inescapable day when Adam would leave home for good. But Ben couldn't let him go, not then. Not yet. Not feeling the way that Adam was. Not with a chip on his shoulder and pain his heart, because that—Ben always knew—promised trouble. It guaranteed bad things in the horizon. But maybe that couldn't have been helped, because maybe bad things were always destined to come no matter what.

_What's the point of being gifted dreams if you aren't going to heed their warnings? _Kane's voice hissed from the depths of his memory. _What is the point of knowing something bad is on the horizon if you don't do anything to stop it?_

Ben had tried to stop it, because when a trip to Eastgate became necessary he had tried his best to keep Adam home. He had wanted him to stay home. Away from Eastgate and its foreign saloon full of liquor and trouble, away from the cliff-filled desert which seemed so like the one in his dreams. It hadn't worked; it never worked. He had never been able to change Adam's mind once it was made up. Any kind of agreement or concession on Adam's part was merely ceremonious. He was always going to do what he was going to do.

_He went into that desert knowing what he would find, _Elizabeth's statement rung in Ben's ears.

If Adam had gone into the desert knowing what he would find, if he knew Kane was out there, and what would happen to him if they met, then why would want to do such a thing? Because he didn't expect to come back, Ben recalled sadly. But even so, what purpose of going in the first place? What was the purpose of it _all_?

_You don't know what happened, Pa, _Adam had sobbed on the floor of the Eastgate boarding house._ You don't know… You don't know... You don't know... You don't know! _

Had Adam been talking about the desert? Or something else? Rarely could his son's statements not be interpreted to have numerous contexts. He was careful with his feelings and his words; he always had found ways of talking about things without actually discussing them.

_You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him distract you from the questions you should be asking, _Kane had said.It was statement that was as infuriating now as it had been in his dream. What were the questions he should be asking?

_You're the Great Ben Cartwright, _Kane had said, _don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future._

What about the past was important? What were the decisions and events that led Adam here?

_That's gonna be me! _Adam had said as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth on the end of a noose.

It was a statement easily attributed to how Adam felt about Kane's death. What did Ben know for certain Adam actually did? Even if he had killed Peter Kane—something his father still struggled to believe—it was a defensible action. The sheer state of him when he had been found wandering the desert had declared any objectionable theory about Kane's death inadmissible. Adam had had marks on his wrists and ankles; it was obvious he had been tied up. He had marks on his body, evidence of beatings; he had been starved, and dehydrated. If Adam had really killed Kane then he had done what was necessary to survive. It was just like before, when he had done what was necessary to keep himself alive.

Standing amongst jagged cliffs, Adam shot and killed Ross Marquette because Ross was trying to kill him. And then after his best friend's death, guilt had led Adam to drink and fight. It had led him to buy the Silver Dollar; it had led him away from home, further away from his family and toward the cliff Hoss had found him upon.

But prior to all that Adam had had a bad feeling himself. He had bad dreams too. In the days following his discovery of Ross's violent treatment of Delphine, Adam had been plagued with nightmares and palpable uneasiness. Looking back now, it seemed to follow him like a dark shadow as he worked absently and silently next to his brothers and father as they rounded up cattle to be branded.

_"__I dream about Ross and Del and the devil too, I think," _Adam had admitted to Ben

as they rode side-by-side on their horses a mere day before Del and Ross would both be killed.

_"__Dreams are just dreams, son,"_ Ben had tried to soothe. _"You know that. They aren't real, so they can't come true."_

Adam wouldn't be calmed so easily. _"But what if they can?"_ he insisted. _"What if Minister Joe is right? What if the devil is inside of Ross and that's what caused him to change? And how do you save someone from the devil, Pa? How do you save somebody from themselves?"_

_"It is your nightmares that are making you tortured by such a thing?"_

_"I feel like something bad is going to happen. I don't know what and I don't know when, but something is… building and growing and it's going to continue growing until it becomes too large and then it's going to finally explode."_

Ben couldn't have known it then, but Adam had been right. The morning would come, bringing the bad thing Adam had been anticipating; the truth would finally be known about Ross Marquette. And Ben would always look back on that day regretfully wishing for a kinder outcome. If not for Delphine or Ross then for Adam.

"I'm sorry, Pa," Hoss said again. "You've always trusted me to tell you important things and I let you down."

"You didn't let me down," Ben said absently, his mind turning from the memory of Adam's words on the range. "You told me, didn't you?"

Adam had asked how someone could be saved from the devil and how one could save someone from themselves. These were both questions that Kane had posed to him in his dreams. But they weren't Kane's words. They were Adam's; they had always been Adam's first. Glaring and irrefutable, it was such an odd thing not to remember. How hadn't he realized it before? He wondered what other questions Kane and Adam shared. What it meant to know that at least some of their words were the same.

And with all the things Ben still didn't know, he was reminded of one he was certain of. Adam didn't kill Peter Kane, but he had killed someone else. He had killed his best friend.

He had killed Ross Marquette. Then, captive to grief and guilt, he had changed. He began misbehaving, drinking too much and fighting with any and everyone. His family, strangers, even the law. Buying the Silver Dollar, he had left home. Ben had wanted so badly to make him stay but he couldn't find the right words. He couldn't seem to say much of anything to lessen his son's pain. And so, he had stepped back and let his son go, not with any intention of allowing him to wander too far or to lose his grip on him completely. Just enough for Adam to be alone with his grief, so he could feel it fully and decide he wanted—needed—his father's help to work through it. But Adam never decided upon such a thing. Time and space had done nothing to soothe the storm that was raging inside of him.

During this time, Hoss had fallen into the habit of accidentally overhearing conversations between Adam and Ben. Some were kinder than others, although they all could be perceived as teetering on the very edge of what could constitute as respectful. Except for one which Ben was relieved to know hadn't been overheard. If not to protect Adam's words from being looked upon in an unfavorable light, then to protect his own actions from being viewed in the same way.

It was the middle of cold, dark night that brought Ben to the Silver Dollar to look in on his son. Hoss had done his best to linger close to Adam, keep a careful eye on him as his father requested. The last few days Adam had been missing from the property and when Hoss had voiced his concern, Ben decided he could no longer tolerate giving Adam berth. He needed to look upon him with his own eyes, verify the situation for himself.

Arriving at the Silver Dollar, Ben found the house as dark as the surrounding night sky and Adam sitting on a hay bale in the barn. Clutching a half-empty liquor bottle in his hand, he was drunk. Too drunk to be expected to maintain a civil conversation; too drunk to take kindly to a middle of the night visit from his Pa.

Captive to hard liquor and a black mood, Adam's pain was obvious. His extreme mental anguish and grief coupled with brown liquid he was consuming had left him uninhibited, loosening his tongue and rendering him incapable of reining in his anger, shifting his tone, or carefully choosing his words. Most of the things Adam had said to his father didn't bear repeating. Ben didn't want to repeat them, because they had been terrible enough to hear and endure at the time. There was one statement in particular he tried hard to erase from memory completely, if not for how it had made him feel but for the shame he felt over what it had prompted him to do.

_"__What are you going to do, Adam?"_ Ben had demanded ferociously. There was a sharpness to his tone, his anger facilitating the question. He had long reached the limit with his son's belligerence.

_"__Why don't you tell me?"_ Adam roared, his fury matching that of his father. _"You're the Great Ben Cartwright! You're so omniscient and wise! You know all there is to know about anything. You tell me what I oughta do."_

_"__You keep a respectful tongue in your mouth when you speak to me!" _

_"__I don't want to speak to you all!"_

_"__ADAM!" _

_"__Christ, Pa! Won't you listen? Why are you even here? I want you to leave." _

_"__I will not!"_

_"__You will! Get the fuck off my proper—!"_

With the strength of his backhand, Ben finally silenced his son. Even after it was done, he couldn't have explained what exactly had prompted him to do such a thing. If it was his son's unmitigated anger, his spiteful statements, or the blasphemous word he had dared aim at his father. Maybe it was all of those things put together, or maybe it was really none of them at all. In the moment, Ben wasn't particularly concerned with why he done such a thing; he was too horrified over having done it at all.

Never in any of his sons' respective lives had he backhanded any of them. He had yelled at and lectured them, tanned them, perhaps grasped them a little to firmly by their upper arms and led them to a private place to deal with their insolence and bad behavior. But he had never once lifted a hand to their faces; he had never struck them out white-hot fury, reacting to the moment rather than allowing himself time to think.

The red mark on Adam's cheek was immediate; obvious and accusing beneath the darkness of his short beard growth. His haggard breaths were the only noise to be heard. Thick and shaking, they seemed to fill space between them as Adam stood, suddenly seeming so close and far away, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Adam wanted to hit him back, Ben was certain of that. In Adam's raging eyes, he could see his son's indigitation so clearly. There was anger there, a familiar type; it demanded immediate, impulsive action no matter the consequence. It was anger Ben recognized, because he had experienced it before. He had displayed himself when he and Adam had been so much younger than they were. It was behavior learned from his father's example, his own father learning it from his father and so on. It was hereditary. And it was dangerous. It promised trouble, unfavorable complications and consequences always accompanying impulsive mistakes.

For a moment, Ben was certain that Adam was going to hit him. Then, overcome by shame and remorse, he was certain his son wouldn't dare. Even if Adam couldn't control the angry words slipping from his mouth, he could at least remain the master of his physical actions. His eldest son always seemed so capable of doing the things his father failed to. It was a simple fact that smarted, but it was what Ben saw in Adam's eyes that stung the most.

Standing before him, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, Adam's expression changed. His anger melted away in an instant, only to be replaced by something more bothersome and haunting. Ben wasn't sure if it was the amount of liquor his son had drunk, the stinging of his cheek or pride, his fear or his shock that prompted Adam's unmasked, regressive reaction. He wasn't sure if it ultimately mattered in the end.

Wide and brimming with tears, Adam's hazel eyes were sparking with pain as he looked upon his father in a way he hadn't since he was a small boy. There was an accusation in those tearful eyes, a heart-wrenching confliction that so clearly screamed, _You are my father; you are supposed to keep me safe and love me no matter what. But you hurt me and now I don't know what to think. _

It was a look more fitting of a youngster than a man of Adam's age who had a firm understanding that bad behavior always came with consequences; he had knowledge about context that allowed him to interpret actions and behavior. He knew his father was a fierce, formidable man, who could hurt someone who threatened their safety but would never dare raise a hand to him to do the same. Except, in that moment, Ben realized quickly that he had.

_"__Adam,"_ he whispered dreadfully as he extending a peaceful hand toward his son who was quick to back away. _"Son."_

The damage was already done, a fact was only emphasized when Adam turned around, hiding his face from view as he gave into the sobs he could no longer keep at bay. He had always been like this. Even when he was a little boy, he never allowed the person who hurt him to immediately comfort him after. There had always been a waiting period allotted for him to contemplate what had been done, how it demanded things change or remain the same. He never accepted immediate condolence. He had always required time.

Ben couldn't tolerate listening to his son's distress without doing something it ease and soothe it. He had never any good at watching his boys cry. And Adam was due for a good long cry, of this Ben was certain. Whether it was prompted by his anger or his son's cavernous sadness over the death of his friends, those tears would have come eventually. They just happened to come then, after their tense angry words, after the furious motion Ben longed to take back.

_"__Adam,"_ he tried gently. Moving in front of him, he enveloped into his arms. Adam was noncompliant at first, moving his limbs to weakly push him away. Ben stood rooted in place, holding his son close until he gave up his meek fight.

_"__I'm sorry for striking you,"_ he whispered, his own emotions feeling too close to the surface. _"But not for being disappointed by what you said." _

He was never certain if was his apology or something else that prompted Adam to finally hug him back. It was moment—a mistake—that seemed to change everything and nothing at the same time. He wondered if this was the moment that prevented Adam from talking to him about the cliff or his real reasons for demanding to be allowed to go to Eastgate. He wondered if this was the conversation that shifted things for Adam or if that was something that happened before, a complication of another conversation when Adam had been so worried about Ross and Del.

_I dream of Ross and Del and the devil too, I think,_ Adam had said. It was a difficult admission for his son to make, but Ben had dismissed it immediately. He hadn't taken the time to figure what Adam was really saying. What it all really meant.

But what did it all _really_ mean? Was it all somehow connected? Did one decision lead to another and then another? Or were they all singular? Each existing independently of one another. A string of bad things just happening with no discernable reason why.

The moment in the Silver Dollar's barn would become the last time, prior to his departure to Eastgate, Adam would hug his father. It was also the last time, before being found aimlessly wandering the desert, Adam would allow Ben to see him cry. And finding him in that desert after searching for so long, becoming so overwhelmed by relief and then fear, Ben would be forced to yell at his son in an effort to rescue him from his crazed ramblings. It would work, but for one horrible second, before Adam began to cry, Ben was certain he had seen fear etched on his son's face and it remind him of that night in the barn. It was memory he didn't want to think about but he knew it would never leave him.

It was undeniable that Adam was different after Ross and Del's deaths, after buying the Silver Dollar, after his drinking and fighting, after that fateful night in the barn. After his sickness had finally forced him to come home. He awoke from his fever with a strange look in his eyes; he looked upon his father at his bedside speaking of ships and storms. At the time, Ben had taken it as a good sign. A sign that Adam had finally resolved himself to come to terms with all that had taken place.

But what if it hadn't been a good sign? What if it had been a warning of something else?

They didn't talk much after, Ben and Adam. Eventually, there came to be a distinct difference in how his son acted towards him and everyone else. He was quiet and reserved, inpatient to a point. Looking back, he seemed bored; irrefutably troubled by the perceived stagnancy of his life. But what if it hadn't been boredom or stagnance that changed Adam's view on his surroundings? What if it was something else?

What if it was that indecipherable bad thing Ben had felt approaching all along?

"I hit your brother," Ben admitted softly. Hoss's indignation over such an occurrence was immediate. "Not today," he qualified. "Not recently. But as long as we're talking about things that happened after Adam bought the Silver Dollar, then there you are."

"When?" Hoss pressed.

"The night I went to see him for myself. He was drinking heavily; we exchanged words; he said something I took offense to."

"That was his habit back then. He didn't seem to be much for talkin' but there wasn't nothing that came out of his mouth someone couldn't take offense to. He was always lookin' for trouble, rearing for fight."

"That doesn't make what I did right," Ben said.

"No, sir."

"He was belligerent and I reacted to him in anger. Neither one of us were acting as we should."

"I understand, Pa," Hoss said earnestly. "It was difficult back then. Adam was so in need of help and he wasn't interested in takin' none. We all did our best to do right by him, and he sorted himself out in the end."

"Did he?"

Hoss shrugged. "I thought he did. He quit drinking and fightin'. He stayed out of trouble and at home."

"He became quiet."

"Adam always gets quiet when he's thinkin' things through. He's independent. He likes to stand on his own two feet and handle things on his own." Hoss frowned, his brows knitting. "Or at least he used to," he added softly.

Maybe he still does, Ben thought.

"Pa?" Hoss asked. "Memories and thoughts of Adam standing on the edge of cliffs and bad dreams, what does any of that have to do with right now?"

Shaking his head, Ben didn't know for sure, but given more thought, he suspected he would.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Upon further consideration, knowledge of Adam and the cliff, Ben's and his son's respective bad feelings and dreams didn't make more sense than they previously had.

And so, retiring downstairs to nurse a glass of something strong and dark and sporadically chewing on the end of his pipe, Ben resigned himself to not thinking anymore about it. At least not then. Not that night. He was in need of at least one peaceful one, he thought. He was at the very least deserving of one night where he could let his worry for his eldest son go. When he could sit leisurely and relax, enjoying his tobacco and a few sips of something strong as he was warmed by the heat of the low-burning fire.

It wasn't to be—at least not that night.

The fire was warm as it ever was, as was the brandy as it slipped down his throat; and the tobacco tasted the way it always did, smooth, earthy, subtle and comforting. It gave him something to do with his body; grounding and unconscious, the actions were completed idly—almost in the background—as his thoughts strayed further and further away from reason.

There didn't seem to be a logical reason for Adam to end up how he was. Though there were plenty lunatic notions, ideas of which could be conceived of but never quite believed. Ideas that the devil had been in Ross Marquette and now was inside his son. Ideas that his dreams—and perhaps Adam's too— were premonitory, serving as both a warning and a gift. But if that was the case then he had wasted his opportunity. Nothing had been prevented. Too much had happened for his dreams to be looked upon with any other emotion than pain.

In his dreams he had seen Adam standing on the edge of cliff. It had been such a bothersome, haunting sight. One which he knew now had actually taken place. Kane had taken such joy in torturing Ben with an image of the empty cliff, the steep jagged remains that somehow managed to stand unaffected after the evil man shoved Adam off the edge. He had asked Ben—once in his dreams and then over and over again in his silent tortured thoughts—what was point of being gifted dreams if you didn't do anything with the knowledge? But Ben wondered if that was the real question.

What was the point of being gift images of something that had already taken place? How was one supposed to use knowledge of such a _particular_ event to navigate the fall-out of the fragmented series of events that followed? How were his dreams of Adam on the cliff supposed to help him free his son from the intangible Kane?

He heard the approaching footsteps long before he turned around. He knew he would see his youngest son before he laid eyes on him. He knew his boys; he had always been able to identify his each of his sons by the weight of their footsteps—no matter how quiet and careful they may try to be. Turning, he found Little Joe settling on the edge of the low-sitting table, warming himself by the flames of flickering fire. His shirt was untucked and he was missing his belt and boots. He looked as though he had been readying himself for bed before abandoning the intention and seeking out his father instead.

Ben's stomach turned, slightly discomforted by why that would be. The only occasions Joe sought him out at such an hour was when he struggling with something, when had some secret truth weighing on his conscience demanding to be shared. Ben found himself hoping it wasn't either that brought Joe into his company but taking in his son's grave expression, he knew it was both.

"Pa," Little Joe said.

"Yes."

"Hoss and I had a long talk."

"About?"

"Adam, how he is now and how he was before."

Shoulders sinking, Ben heartily exhaled around the stem of his pipe, the darkened expelled breath lingering in front his face in a puff of smoke. He had no desire to repeat conversations; he hardly had any patience left where the topic was concerned. Joe had been a great advocate for his eldest brother and the miniscule possibly he would return to who he had been but it was time to let such thoughts go. Adam was who he was; they would accept him unconditionally—however each dawn presented him to be, however _Adam_ presented himself to be. Ben frowned at the bothersome thought. He was ashamed for thinking it. It wasn't Adam who was doing anything—of that, he had always been certain. If Kane was real or imagined, his son wasn't actively choosing to do anything. His fear was. His fear dictated everything; it prompted every behavior, rendered him unable to make logical choices.

But Adam had finally made a logical choice. He had had sat before Ben and weighed one choice against another when he had been told his options: to be brave in the face of his lingering fear of Kane or give into it. In the end, there was really only choice to be made—Ben knew that, but it didn't stop him from being overjoyed, hopeful, and relived to finally hear Adam acknowledge it.

_Okay_, that was what Adam had said. He hadn't said anything after; he didn't need to. The singular word was enough—it said everything his father wanted him to. But that had been before. Before Hoss had taken a hold of him in the hallway, before he told the truth about the cliff. Before his son's admission had prompted Ben to remember a few hidden truths of his own. Before he recalled Adam's actions and words and his own.

_I think I dream of the devil_, that was what Adam had once said—not with those specific words, of course, but something to that effect. Adam had said it and Ben had dismissed it, and then his son never said it again. But he had said other things—things Ben was certain hadn't been said properly or interpreted correctly at the time.

_Do you think this is what I want?_ It was a question Adam had asked long ago, after he had purchased the Silver Dollar, on the day he decided to leave home and live upon the property alone.

_You tell me what I oughta do, _Adam had bellowed the next time Ben saw him, standing drunkenly under the cover of darkness in the Silver Dollar's barn.

_I need to get out while I still can,_ Adam had eventually said, sitting on the edge of Ben's desk making his plea to allowed to go to Eastgate. He _had_ to go Eastgate; it didn't matter how much Ben wanted to keep him home.

"Hoss said that if know anything more about Adam then I should tell you," Joe said. "He said if I'm keeping any secrets for him then I need to come clean. As of late, Adam hasn't really been in the habit of keepin' secrets. I reckin' there isn't much of anything that goes on with him that the three of us don't know about, well, four of us, I guess, counting Hop Sing. But that's _now_, and Hoss told me I need to talk to you about _before_."

"When is before?" Ben asked. The context of what this son was saying was something he was determined to properly understand.

"Before, when Adam was still Adam," Joe said. "When he and I were still in each other's company on the drive, before we delivered those cattle and split up and he lost himself in that desert."

"And what do you want to tell me about that time?"

Breaking eye contact, Joe looked at his hands, his expression changing. "Pa," he said tightly, "I know you and Hoss don't exactly appreciate my determination not to treat Adam different, but the problem with accepting Adam the way he is _now_ is that you have to assume he was acting right _before_ and he wasn't. He hadn't been for a long time."

"What makes you think that?"

"I don't think it. I _know _it. I know a lot of things. Like how the desert and man he met in it isn't what gave Adam his nightmares. He was having them before he and I went on that drive. He's been having them for a long time. Of course, he was better at controlling himself after a bad dream back then. He didn't scream after waking up, and he didn't cry, although sometimes I think he wanted to."

"How do you know he had nightmares?"

"I used to hear him cry out in the middle of the night. He wasn't loud, but I heard him. At first, I thought you and Hoss knew about them too and you were just being kind and letting him be. Then later, I knew the two of you didn't know, because I was the one waking Adam up before he really got loud."

Looking at Ben, Joe's eyes shined with regret, his face contorting with the kind of shame that always accompanied sharing a brother's secret with someone it had been carefully hidden from.

"I'm sorry, Pa. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. Adam didn't want you know. He didn't want _me_ to know, of course that couldn't be helped. I think he was pretty ashamed at first, then I think he was relieved. If I knew about his nightmares, then I could help him when he found himself trapped inside of one. I could help him keep them secret by making sure no one else ever found out."

"When did these dreams start?"

"I don't for sure," Joe admitted. "It was after Ross and Del, and after that fever almost killed him that I found out. Even then, I suspected he had been having them for a while. When I woke him that first time, he didn't seem particularly surprised he had been having a nightmare; he only seemed surprised that I was the one leaning over him when he woke up. I think he was expecting you." He shook his head sadly. "I think he wanted me to be you. But it was me and because it was me, he wouldn't talk about what he was dreaming of. I tried to get him to talk about it. Lord, he got so_ furious_ whenever I tried to bring it up. I wanted to do for him what he always did for me; I wanted to be able to listen and help him move passed whatever was bothering him so much. He wouldn't allow it. I am the youngest brother and he is the oldest, _the nature of our relationship is defined by those roles_, that was what he said to me. It wasn't right for him to need me to ease his worries the way I sometimes needed him to ease mine."

"But you could keep his secret?" Ben challenged simply.

Joe frowned guilty. "Pa, you have to understand what it felt like to overhear him. Those dreams were so _bad_, I could tell by the way he acted when he woke up. He didn't want me knowing he was havin' nightmares, and he sure wasn't gonna let me help him. Keeping the secret about his nightmares was how I could help him. And I wanted to help him. I wanted to do that more than anything I had ever wanted before."

"You should have said something; you should have told me."

"Why? So, you could ask him about his dreams and he could deny having them? It wouldn't have mattered, Pa. If Adam doesn't ask for help himself, he isn't one to take it. Although..." Joe paused thoughtfully. "It's different with you. He's more inclined to admit he needs you than me or even Hoss. You know, it's funny, a lot of people think that because I'm the youngest and Adam's the oldest that I need you more than he does. But that's not true, because he doesn't have an older brother to go to when he needs to talk something out, or when he feels like things are getting too tough to handle on his own. I'm the _youngest_," he said emphatically. "I have two older brothers and father to go when things are particularly rough. Sometimes Adam feels like he only has you."

Ben couldn't disagree.

"The nature of our relationship is bound by our roles, even now," Joe continued. "I'm not the one whose bed he's crawling into when he can't stand being alone, and I'm not person who he lets hug him when everything gets to be too much. It's you and sometimes it's Hoss, but it's never me, and that's why I can't see him the way you and Hoss do. Seeing him how I always have is what he expects from me. It's what he's comfortable with."

"You help him by not bringing attention to how he's changed," Ben said, finally understanding Joe's determination not accept Adam's change in demeanor. "You help him by not helping him."

"And I help him by telling you the truth about his nightmares." Joe cast Ben's serious look. "I help him by finally telling you the truth of happened on the way to Eastgate."

"What happened?"

"Nothing that bothered me enough to take note of at the time, but now…" Joe paused, his brows knitting with concern. "Well, _now_ I can see so clearly what I missed then. Like I said, he had been having nightmares for a while; he continued to have them on the way to Eastgate. At the time, I thought they were the same dreams he was having at home, but now I think they were different. They affected him differently."

"How so?"

"Adam was so quiet on that the drive, Pa. Looking back, it seems like he didn't talk at all; he kept his attention focused on the horizon. When the land began to change, when the mountains and pine trees began to become sparse and the ground became dry and dust-covered as it transformed into desert, Adam changed too. He became agitated, nervous; he kept looking in the distance, like he expected to see something he was dreading to find. I don't know if ever saw anything when he and I were still together." Joe shrugged. "I never saw anything, but I guess that doesn't really much a difference, because we all know Adam sees things we don't."

"We know he sees things we can't see _now_," Ben corrected. "We don't know when that began."

"Like I said, I never saw anything out there," Joe repeated seriously. "I don't know what Adam did or didn't see. He was quiet during the day but at night he screamed."

"Screamed?"

"I never heard anything like it, at least not then. After we found him, maybe but even the nightmares he had in Eastgate or on the way home seemed different. On the way to Eastgate Adam's nightmares seemed... more intense. He didn't sleep much and when he did, his slumber didn't stay peaceful for long before he woke both of us up with his screams." Expelling a deep breath, Joe shuttered, seemingly bothered by the haunting nature of the memory. "I have _never_ heard a man yell like that. He wasn't saying words, Pa; he was screaming from the pit of his belly. Just _screaming_, like he was being tortured, like someone was hurting him. When I heard him that first night, I thought for sure something was going wrong for us. I sprung up from my bedroll with my gun drawn, so convinced I was gonna find an intruder in our camp. I was convinced somebody had to be there, doing something horrible to get Adam to sound like he did."

"He screamed on the way back from Eastgate too," Ben reminded softly, reminded of those nights, how Adam had screamed, rousing them all from their slumber, and how Joe hadn't seemed to sleep much at all. He had taken to watching the dying embers of the campfire with haunted eyes. At the time, Ben hadn't placed much weight on Joe's actions or words. He had been too preoccupied with Adam's. But now he knew he should have listened better. He should have paid more heed to both the things Joe had said and how he had looked when saying them.

Joe had told his father what happened to Adam was his fault because he had allowed Adam to head into the desert alone. He had told Ben he should have known better than to allow his brother to venture off alone.

"That was different," Joe said, emancipating his father from his thoughts. "It was a different kind of scream. Adam was different after we found him; he was haunted and afraid. Before, when it was me and him surrounded by cattle and desert, he wasn't afraid. He was angry. He didn't want to talk about anything when he came to from a nightmare. He dismissed any question I asked. He told me to go back to sleep; he told me he was okay; and I told myself I believed him because he was my older brother and that what I was used to. He had never given me reason not to trust and believe what he had to say."

"And now?"

"I still trust and believe him," Joe said. "If says he sees things, then the things he sees are real. I think they were real before Adam met that man in the desert and I think they're real now. I think Adam knew that desert held bad things for him; after we delivered that stock, I don't think he wanted to go into that land alone, but I don't think he had a choice. If I would have had my choice, then he never would have gone." His face contorted with a mixture of pain and regret. "I told him I didn't want him to go, Pa," he whispered, his quiet voice cracking with emotion. Bottom lip trembling, he looked into the flames of the fire, unable or unwilling to continue.

Sitting next to him, Ben placed a comforting hand on Joe's shoulder and squeezed. "Tell me more, Joe," he prompted when it seemed as though his youngest son may never speak again. This was an opportunity he was certain would not come again. "Don't stop telling this story now that you've finally begun."

Clearing his throat and wiping his hands over his face, Joe was silent for a few moments more. "When arrived to Eastgate with the stock," he finally began, his voice low and haunted, "Adam stayed back to observe the count and get payment. I went to the saloon and he joined me later and that was when he told me what he intended to do. _We're gonna take a couple of day off_, that's what he said. I told him that you weren't going to be happy about that and he said he didn't care. I was hot and tired and dirty from the trail. I was not looking forward to sleeping on the ground again; I wanted to take bath, eat good meal, have a good night's rest, so I agreed with him. Of course, I didn't know then exactly what I was agreeing to. I shouldn't have done that, Pa. I'm sorry. You gave us orders to come back as quickly as we arrived and I ignored them."

"It's okay," Ben soothed. There were enough things to feel bad about, Joe didn't need to harbor guilt over this one.

"It isn't, and now it never will be, because I _agreed_. I wish I never would have agreed to split up. I didn't want to. Adam said he intended venture East for some peace and quiet, do some hunting and then fishing at Pyramid Lake. I told him I wanted to go with him, but there was no getting Adam to agree with that. He said he didn't want me to go. He said I wasn't invited. He wanted to be alone; he needed some time _alone_. All I could think about was him being alone with his nightmares with nobody to wake him up when he started to scream. I didn't like the idea of him being alone with whatever was haunting him in his dreams at night, but then I thought maybe that was the point. Maybe he had had enough of me hearing him. Maybe he needed some time alone to protect his pride. He's the oldest and I'm youngest, there's always going to be a limit to how much he's willing to allow me to see or do when he's hurting."

"Adam sets limit for all of us," Ben said. "Or at least he used to."

"I agreed to let Adam go," Joe continued. "He joined me at the bathhouse before he left. It's so _damn_ odd to think about now. While we were cleaning up, I kept trying to talk to him about Obadiah Johnson's trial and Adam kept saying Obadiah would hang because he was guilty. _A man is responsible for what he does_, he said. _If he loses control of himself then he has to be punished for it. _I keep thinking about those words now, Pa; I hear Adam saying them over and over again in my mind. I can't help but wonder if there's something Adam thinks he did, something he's determined to punish himself for. If that's why he doesn't seem interested in allowing anyone to help him now. I should have been strong enough to help him back then. I shouldn't have agreed to let him go. I should have insisted on coming back home, like you told us to."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Ben said sadly. "It isn't easy to change Adam's mind when it's made up."

"That's what scares me the most now. If he has his mind made up about what's he's doing now, supposedly listening to the ghost he sees, how are we going to help him? How do you protect somebody from themselves? How do you win against an enemy you can't see?"

Ben thought on the question, considering all the things he was now privy to as he carefully crafted his reply. Hoss had said Adam had stood on the edge of cliff preparing himself to jump; he had confirmed Ben's worst fear. Joe had said Adam was suffering from nightmares long before they rescued him from the desert; something had been disturbing him before he came across Peter Kane. Adam had said he didn't want to be how he was; he had agreed to finally fight, to try to change—meekly, of course, but when Ben had told Adam he needed to either break Kane's hold or learn to live with it, Adam had agreed.

_Okay_, Adam had said, his voice carrying the slightest edge of stubborn determination that had been absent for so long. They both knew Adam couldn't fight alone, but he wasn't alone. He had never really been alone.

"We are winning," Ben said.

Joe cast him a confused look. "How?"

"Because we are talking to each other about things that should have been disclosed a long time ago. We're keeping close watch on Adam, ensuring he is safe. Adam spoke again today, Joe. He's ready to change; he wants to overcome the fear that has been consuming and holding him down. And we're all ready to help him with that."

"How do we do that?"

"We don't have to know how," Ben said. "We take each day as it comes. We take each _moment_ for what it is; when the opportunity presents itself to help him, we will know what to do, Joseph. We've all always known that giving up on him was the wrong thing to do. It was wrong to give up on him when he was lost in the desert, and it's wrong to abandon this fight. We have gone back and forth on this subject so many times, debating, discussing, and even arguing about what Adam's future holds and what he needs us to do for him. What he needs us to do is agree; he needs us to stop being consumed by guilt over our own actions, the things we think we should or could have done to change what happened, so that we can begin to help him contend with his own. There's a reason Adam is acting like the way he is. There is _always_ a belief that propels every decision he makes. Right now, it's his belief in and fear of Kane's ghost."

"It can't just be that," Joe disagreed. "Adam was having nightmares long before he met that man. He hadn't been acting right for a long time before he went into that desert."

"That's because Adam went into that desert looking for Kane. He knew what he was going to find."

Joe was appalled. "How do you know that?"

"You said yourself, there was no stopping him from leaving you behind in Eastgate. I was unable to stop him from going on that drive. He was going to go into that desert, Joe. He went looking for that man, I'm sure of it."

"How can you be?"

"Because Adam's nightmares were about Kane. He once told me he thought he dreamed of the devil, I'm certain now he was talking about Kane."

"Adam talked about the devil," a voice said from across the room.

Ben and Joe looked at the staircase in unison and found Hoss lingering on the bottom stair. Ben wondered how long his middle son had been there, how much of the conversation with Joe had been overheard. He hoped Hoss had heard all of it. They were no longer in business of keeping secrets from one another.

"Adam said if the devil wants to find you can," Hoss finished. "He said that to me when he was standing on the edge of cliff, fixin' to jump."

"I dreamed of Adam standing on the edge of cliff," Ben explained to Joe. "That's why I didn't want him to go on the drive to Eastgate. I've dreamed of Kane sporadically since. I am inclined to agree with what Adam previously said."

"You think Kane is the devil?" Joe asked his eyes widening with fear as glanced between his father and brother.

"Kane was evil, Joe," Hoss said. "Don't you remember what the Eastgate townsfolk said about him?"

"I'll never forget," Joe said. "They said he was a devil of a man, exiled to the desert not because of what he did to anyone himself but because of what he was able to convince others to do to each other."

"Adam dreamed of him," Hoss said. "Pa too. Even though the man's dead that don't stop him from torturing Adam."

"The only question which remains is why," Ben said. What did Kane want with Adam? What was the purpose of luring him into the desert and haunting him so?"

As Joe shook his head and Hoss shrugged, Ben quickly realized he had posed the question to the wrong son. The only one who could answer the question was Adam. And it was a question Adam would finally answer. Ben would make sure of it.

"It's late, you boys get on up to bed," Ben said. "We've thought enough of this tonight. It's time to get some rest and look at it with clear eyes and minds tomorrow."

"What about you?" Hoss challenged softly.

"What about me?" Ben asked.

"Are you going stay down here alone, thinkin' on all of this for the rest of the night?" Joe asked.

Ben smiled, comforted by the knowledge it was possible for sons to know their father so well. "No," he said. "I am going to retire upstairs too."

And, following Joe and Hoss up the staircase, he did. First to his own bedroom as his two younger sons entered their own, then to Adam's room to watch over him as he slept.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Ben's dream began before he realized he had fallen asleep.

Sitting on the edge of the cliff, legs hung over the side, he clenched his hands together and considered the desolate, desert landscape below. The ground was rugged and dry; difficult to travel upon during the day and impossible to negotiate as it presented itself now, surrounded by the darkness of night. There was a chill in the air; a peace to his surroundings that seemed inappropriate given the intensity of his past dreams of this place and the man standing behind him.

_"__I thought you were determined not to dream of me anymore,"_ Kane said.

_"__I thought so too,"_ Ben said. He was no longer afraid of this dream, of whomever—or whatever—it was he was speaking to. Deep and gravely, Kane's voice was downright grinding. It was a voice Ben now knew with unyielding certainty was not of the world. Kane wasn't of the world; he wasn't neither man nor a demon. He was a devil—although if he was _the devil_, Ben had yet to decide. _"I guess we were both wrong."_

_"__I am never wrong," _Kane said._ "But I wonder what else you're wrong about."_

Shaking his head, Ben refused to consider the statement. He hadn't come here to be taunted and teased. He hadn't imagined this place in his slumber and sought out Kane to be asked anything. He would ask the questions this time around. He would ask Kane the same things he planned to ask Adam when the time was right.

_"__So, your younger sons finally told you the truth they were hiding about your eldest," _Kane said. _"It's not much information when you really think about it, but I suppose you think you understand everything now."_

_"__No," _Ben said. Not everything. Not yet.

He set his attention on the bleak, night sky disguising the horizon and was reminded that at the very edge of darkness, there was always light. Dawn was coming; he could see hints of the morning sky breaking through the black clouds.

_"__I see,"_ Kane said knowingly. _"You aren't dreaming of me because you understand. You're dreaming of me because you want to."_

_"__You told me you could tell me things if I was willing to listen. I wasn't before, but I'm willing now."_

_"__And what kind of things do you wish to hear?"_

_"__The truth."_

_"__Ah,"_ Kane said._ "Well, you haven't been very fond of certain truths I brought up in the past, what makes you think you're deserving of hearing such a thing now?"_

Turning, Ben looked at Kane and considered the question. What answer would entitle him to the information he was seeking? He wasn't sure but he suspected volunteering an honest answer would entitle him one in return.

_ "__When you said I treated my sons differently you were right,"_ he said. _"I do. I expect different things from them because they're different people, with different weaknesses and strengths."_

This admission didn't seem to surprise Kane, who crossed his arms and nodded his head, a silent prompt for Ben to continue until he voiced a satisfactory answer. Ben wondered what this answer was and how many truths he would have to tell before being allotted the one he was seeking.

_"__When you said I allowed Adam to manipulate me into allowing him travel to Eastgate you were right,"_ Ben said. _"Although, you were wrong about the reason I allowed such a thing. You said I allowed it because he called me Papa."_

Kane's eyes were black orbs, shining with a hint of bright red. Nodding at Ben, he said nothing, the action an obvious demand for Ben to continue.

_"__It was manipulative of Adam to do that, but not because of the reason you said,"_ Ben said simply, a hint of a sad smile on his lips. _"That word isn't—wasn't—inane and juvenile, and hearing it voiced by my oldest son does not make me feel needed, or less obsolete in his life, at least it didn't that day. It made me feel guilty. It reminded me of a past I wish could take back and a future that seems so destined and unavoidable that I dreaded it a little more each day."_

_"__You don't dread the future anymore?"_

_"__I do,"_ Ben admitted. It was something he was certain they both knew. _"It's a different kind of dread I feel now. Before I worried about Adam leaving me for a more adventurous life, and now I fear he will never be able to." _

Turning back around, he stared his feet as they hung suspended in the air, then took a deep breath and resigned himself to finally acknowledging his own truth.

_"__Adam called me Papa when making his argument to be allowed to go to Eastgate. It was such a simple word that, at the time, I both longed and hated to hear it. He used to call me by that name quite frequently, even after he came of age. He thinks Hoss and Joe don't know he does it, but they do. It isn't a secret, rather a detail which goes ignored by both his brothers out of kindness, because even though they don't do it themselves, they can understand the need it's born from. It was Adam's way of voicing his need for things he couldn't or wouldn't articulate with further words."_

Ben shook his head sadly.

_"__He didn't say it a lot, but it always meant something when he did. I used to hear so many things when he used that word. When he used it an argument, it was a demand I listen to him better than I was. When he used it when he was sick or hurt, it was a request for help, reassurance, or comfort. And when said in quiet moments, peaceful occasions when I couldn't have predicted its use, it was his way of saying how much he loved me. There was never a day that he used that word when it didn't mean something more than what he had said. Sometimes I dreaded hearing it, on the occasions when he was injured or ill. Others it filled me with relief, especially when he was struggling with difficulties that were too large to shoulder on his own."_

_"__And other times when he used the work filled you with joy and love," _Kane said. _"When Adam said it seemingly for no reason at all."_

_"__He didn't say it a lot," _Ben repeated. _"And then, suddenly, he wouldn't say it at all. That word was a gift. As quickly as it had been graciously given, it was taken away. _

Pursing his lips, Ben hung his head, his heart throbbing with regret and pain. He didn't want to think about this but he knew he had to. In hope that exchange for this bit of truth he would be become privy to another.

_"__You were right when you said what happened with Ross and Delphine Marquette changed everything,"_ he said. _"It changed Adam in a way I wish could have been avoided. I wish that whole situation could have been avoided. He was different after their deaths; the pain of those events hurt him in a way nothing ever had before. Ross and Adam were very close. They were like brothers; they shared everything, even the same birthday. Ross was very much like another son to me; Delphine felt like a daughter-in-law I don't yet have. It hurt to lose them. It hurt to know what Ross did—all the things he did—stealing the cattle we had tried to give him a year earlier, stage robbing, murdering those men and… Del. It hurt so much to know what he did to Del, and what Adam, in turn, was forced to do to him. It hurt to think about what could have or should have been. I felt like I failed them, all of them. Ross and Del as my surrogate children and Adam as my real one."_

_"__You think you should have been the one to take Ross's life."_

_"__I know I should have been the one to take his life. Not Adam. Never Adam. I never wanted it to be him."_

_"__It was always going to be him,"_ Kane said matter-of-factly. _"That couldn't have been changed."_

Scoffing, Ben shook his head in disgust. What was the meaning of such statements? Was this devil actually trying to assuage his guilt? _"It should have been me,"_ he said firmly._ "I should have listened to my son better than I did. He came to me for help; he reached out to me so that I could comfort his worries and I dismissed them instead." _

_"__Listening to him that day when the two of you rode side-by-side on the range wouldn't have change anything either."_

_"__I don't believe that; I don't believe Adam believes it either. He came to me," _Ben repeated emphatically. _"He came to me for help that day, before Ross and Del died, and after he never came to me with his worries again."_

_"__Why do you think that is?" _

_"__Because I didn't listen to him correctly. I didn't take the time to hear what he was really saying. He was worried and afraid. He asked me if I believed in God; he told me he thought Ross didn't. He told me he thought he dreamed of the devil, and that if a man believes in God, he has no choice but to believe in the devil too. It was such an odd thing for him to become preoccupied with. It bothered me to know he was consumed by these kinds of thoughts. Still, I dismissed his worry. I told him to get some rest. I told him that discovering Ross had raised a violent hand to Del had caused him strain. I told him that it would all be okay. Everything would work out. But I was wrong. It didn't. In the end, Ross killed Del and Adam killed Ross, and, wracked with guilt, I was unprepared to help my son through his grief."_

_"__Guilt makes men stupid,"_ Kane said simply. _"It makes them act in ways unbecoming of their personalities and past."_

_"__When Adam bought the Silver Dollar at auction, I wanted to grab that deed from him and tear it in half. When he told me he intended to live upon that land and work it, I wanted to drag him upstairs to his bedroom and lock him inside until he changed his mind. When I found out what he was doing on that property, I wanted to throw him over my knee and remind him what kind of man I raised him to be. But I didn't do any of those things. I did something else instead."_

_"__You gave him space. Berth and time to decide what kind of man he wanted to be."_

Ben expelled a sigh. Now Kane really was being kind. _"No. I did something that further changed everything." _In struggling to pull Adam closer, he had pushed him further away. _"I went to that property in the middle of the night. I found my son drinking himself to death. I fought with him. And then I put an end to our fight. He called me Papa that night, when I came upon him in that barn. He said it when he saw me; I remember wondering what it really meant. How I was supposed to interpret it given the circumstances. I took as a cry for help, but I don't think that's how he intended it. Later, he became angry; he said disrespectful things, and I responded to him in anger. I backhanded him, and never called me Papa again."_

_"__Until the day he wanted to go to Eastgate,"_ Kane reminded.

_"__Until the day he wanted to go to Eastgate,"_ Ben sighed. _"He said it and I heard it. And instead of feeling the dread or relief or joy that I had become accustomed to hearing when he previously said that word, all I felt was guilt. It reminded me of that night, what I had done, how much Adam had changed. How different he really was and how quickly time was passing us by. He wasn't the way he had been before. He wasn't as happy or satisfied or at peace with the life we had built as he had once been. In that moment, I was afraid that if I didn't let him go, then he would leave again, for good. That day was always going to come, I knew that, but I wanted to hang on to him for as long as I could." _

_"__He manipulated you. He knew what hearing that word again would implore you to do."_

_"__I manipulated myself. I allowed my guilt to override my intuition. I allowed my fear of the future to cloud my ability to protect my son in the present. I should have told him the truth. I should have shared with him my dreams, how frightened I was for him. I should have spoken to him about my fears so he could share with me his own."_

_"__Wouldn't have changed anything. If you really wanted to save him, then you should have found him sooner. You should have listened to him while he was still willing to speak. You are a fool. There's no stopping this once it's begun. Don't you understand? Adam chose this. I didn't seek him; he sought me. He dreamed of me and then went looking for me. And when he found me, he chose his future. He knew what going to happen. What the future would demand of him—what I would demand of him. He chose poorly, but he chose."_

_"__My son wouldn't choose this life."_

_"__He did."_

_"__I don't believe that."_

_"__Why not?"_ Kane challenged. _"Do you really think you are the only man to ever be haunted by the past and hindered by his guilt."_

_"__No." _

_"__Do you really think your Adam is so rational, intelligent, and meticulous that he is impenetrable by such feelings?"_

_"__No."_

_"__Of course, you don't. After all, isn't that the problem? The one question that haunts you the most? Not necessarily what happened to your son in desert but what he did. You've seen his anger; you recognize it in him what you've struggle with yourself. Adam is a rational man, but if pushed he can lose track of all rational thought. He can become dangerous when threatened or angry or hurt or afraid." _

_"__That's not—"_

_"__It is true. Don't you remember? Of course, you do. How could you ever forget? You saw him loose control of himself as a child when he threatened your wife with the knife. You watched the anger and resentment flicker in his eyes after you hit him. He was furious; he wanted to hit you back."_

_"__But he didn't,"_ Ben said firmly. _"He didn't hit me, and he didn't hurt Marie. He realized his actions were impulsive; he was able to think about what he was doing and chose control over knee-jerk anger. He didn't do anything wrong!" _

_"__You're right. He didn't." _

Ben looked at Kane, an odd feeling building in his chest._ "What?"_

_"__In the desert," _Kane said, his eyes gleaming with evil glee, _"your son didn't do anything wrong. Of course, now perhaps I should qualify my disclosure by saying before, in the desert, Adam didn't do anything wrong. But after, well, after is a completely different time, isn't it? Full of confusion and fear. Nightmares and ghosts—"_

_"__What did you do?"_ Ben demanded. _"What did you do to my son?"_

_"__Nothing he didn't ask me to do. As you now know, he went into the desert purposely. What happened to him was not accidental." _

_"__Why?" _

_"__Because he was looking for something."_

_"__You,"_ Ben accused.

_"__No, not me," _Kane scoffed. _"My God, you are so determined not to figure this out. Even now with all the hints you've been allotted you can't seem to put them together. He knew I would be out there; finding me was never end goal."_

_"__Then what was? What was Adam looking for?" _

_"__Absolution. He needed to endure enough pain to satisfy his ghosts and put them to rest."_

_"__What are you taking about?"_

Kane exhaled heartily, as though Ben's question was the most imbecilic he had ever heard. _"Mister Cartwright,"_ he said patronizingly, _"I may be the one who has embedded himself into your son's mind and soul, but I am not who he sees. I'm neither the one he's afraid of nor the one he needs to satisfy in order to be set free of his fear."_

Ben cast Kane a look of skeptical outrage. The devil was lying. He had to be. After all, wasn't that what he was famous for? His deception and trickery, his ability to shift lies into false truths.

_"__That's a lie,"_ Ben said.

_"__That is a truth. Oh, he dreams of me,"_ Kane repeated, his eyes glistening with joy. _"He did before and he still does now. He and I have vast conversations in his mind, but outside of it, he sees somebody else."_

_"__He told me you were the one—"_

_"__Lies of omission. Adam never said who it was he saw. He gave you clues and he allowed you to come to your own conclusion, which he chose not to correct."_

_"__Adam said—" _

_"__Adam said he spoke to me; he didn't say how or when. Your son dreams of me the way you dream of me. Our conversations take place on the edge of this very cliff. A place where_

_feels he cannot be overheard."_

_"__Overheard by whom?"_

_"__Ghosts." _

_"__Ghosts?"_ Ben snorted skeptically.

_"__You can believe in God, demons and devils, but not ghosts?"_ Kane asked. _"That's a shame. Ghosts are more real than all of those things put together. Sometimes they're angry. Sometimes they're cruel. And sometimes they demand things of the living in exchange for perceived wrongs. If you really wanted to help your son then you should have asked him about ghosts. You should have taken the time to ask him about why he needed to buy the Silver Dollar and why he needed to burn it down. You should have asked him about Frank Mitchel. A man he first fought with then later offered a job. You should have asked your son why he ran away from the timber camp the day he saw Frank. Did he run because he was afraid of Frank or himself?" _

_"__Frank was a hand from Silver Dollar,"_ Ben said.

_"__Who Adam despised."_

_"__Frank said Adam saved his life."_

_"__And your youngest son said Frank lies. The question you ought to be asking yourself now is what does Frank know about Adam? What does Adam know about Frank? Tell me, what do you think your son will do if you ask him about Frank? Is he going to tell the truth or is he going to favor lies instead?"_

_"__Why wouldn't he tell the truth?" _Ben asked, his heart sinking in his chest. What is the purpose of hiding the detail of who he saw?

_"__Guilt,"_ Kane shrugged. _"Shame. All the things we already spoke about. Things that have nothing to do with me, really. I just happened to be where I was. I just happened to come across your son in his nightmares." _

_"__How do those things have nothing to do with you?" _

_"__I didn't start this. I merely interjected myself, offered up my services to be of help."_

_"__Help." _

_"__Yes, help. This may come as a surprise to you, but I am quite altruistic. Now, my help does come at a cost and my assistance is not always what one would want it to be. I do enjoy a good tormenting game now and then but who doesn't? You know who else enjoyed playing games, don't you?" _

Ben shook his head.

_"__Oh, come on,"_ Kane groaned disappointedly. _"The answer is so close now, that is if you can actually reason it out. Think of your fear; the one which frightens you the most. You have all the clues, let's think about them. You noticed changes in Adam when?"_

_"__After Ross and Del's deaths."_

_"__And your middle son pulled Adam off of the edge of the cliff when?"_

_"__After he bought the Silver Dollar."_

_"__And your youngest son said he discovered Adam's nightmares when?" _

_"__After he became sick and burned the Silver Dollar down."_

"PA!" a voice suddenly shouted; echoing through the sky it sounded muffled and far away. "WAKE UP!"

But Ben couldn't do that. Not yet. Not without gleaning an answer to this new question.

_"__Who is it_?" Ben asked as he sprung to his feet. Moving away from the edge of the cliff, he strode purposely toward Kane. _"If it isn't you, then who does my son see?" _

Lips curling into a toothy grin, Kane shook his head. _"Don't tell me you really don't know? After everything we just talked about, you don't have the slightest idea?" _

"PA!" the voice boomed again.

The voice Ben recognized as belonging to Joe. His son's tone was decidedly panicked. Something was happening outside of his dream which required his immediate attention. But looking at Kane, Ben couldn't abandon his dream. This was important too. It might be his only chance to grasp an answer to a question he hadn't been aware of.

_"__Tell me!" _

_"__It's quite a funny story,"_ Kane chuckled. _"You won't find it humorous but I do. You really thought it was me, this whole time, and it wasn't. This belief shaped your opinions and stifled your ability to truly help your son. All this time you wasted, torturing yourself about whether I was real or imagined, if your son was or was not insane. You spent so much time preoccupied with those things that you didn't have any left to consider what was really going on."_

_"__What is really going on?" _

Smile widening, Kane dismissed the question with the shake of his head. _"Just think,"_ he said delightfully, _"just yesterday you asked your son to fight. What you didn't know is he has been fighting this whole time, because the fight was never about doing something; it was about doing nothing. Every day he remained in your home was a brutal fight, because something else, someone else was pushing him, demanding he do something for them."_

_"__Who?" _

_"__You told Adam to change; you told him to try to get better, but there's only one real way to do that. Adam knows it and so do I. Perceptions are funny, aren't they? In that they are quite frequently never the same. You saw Adam doing nothing. Not eating. Not talking. Not leaving his room or the house. From your perception, it appeared as though you were losing the fight, despite what you told your youngest son. But you weren't losing, not then, because Adam knew doing nothing was the point. You told him to fight, and in doing so, you have no idea what you really told him to do." _

_"__What did you do?" _Ben demanded fiercely. _"Tell me what you did!"_

_"__Me?"_ Kane laughed. _"I didn't do anything. Adam on the other hand..."_

"PA!"

_"__... Let's just say, propelled by a big ol' push from his Pa, he finally gave into the power of that ghost." _

Opening his mouth, Ben didn't get a chance to reply. An invisible force grasped his upper arms, shaking his torso forcefully, tearing him abruptly from the dream.

"PA!" Joe shouted again, his voice sounding inches from Ben's face.

Eyes snapping open, Ben found himself still seated in the chair next to Adam's bed. Leaning over him, Joe was grasping his shoulders tightly, his face pinched with terror.

Glancing around the room, Ben saw Adam's empty bed; the covers had been pushed back, abandoned in a haphazard pile at the foot of the bed. The curtains covering the window had been pulled open, revealing the brightness of the morning. Despite the coldness of another snow-packed day, sun was hanging high, shining in bright contrast to the tone of his dream and the panic on Joe's face.

"What's wrong?" Ben asked. "Where's your brother."

Joe's appearance was disheveled; his wrinkled shirt hung untucked and half-open, widely exposing his tanned, toned chest. It appeared as though he had dressed in a hurry, with little time to spare to worry about how he looked. In the moment, he looked as though he was going to burst into tears, then he didn't, resigning himself to speaking instead.

"Pa," he said, his voice shaking. "Sheriff Coffee's downstairs. He needs to talk to you right away."

The idea was ludicrous. Why would the sheriff be visiting their home? At this hour? In this weather? What horrid circumstances would have brought the lawman here?

His gaze snapped to his son's empty bed, his stomach turning with dread. Where was Adam? In the company of his middle brother, once again seeking respite in his crowded bed, he hoped. And even though he desperately wanted this to be somehow he knew it wasn't so. Something had happened. Something bad had come during the night, taking place right beneath his slumbering nose. When he had entered this room just hours ago, Adam had been in this bed, and now he was nowhere to be seen. He had gone missing from the room sometime during the night as his father dreamed of Kane.

Ben was suddenly assaulted with the memory of Kane's glowing evil eyes and the malice lurking behind his toothy grin. Kane's teeth had been impossibly white and improbably sharp, lines of perfect daggers filling a smile that seemed to expand too far, widening his pale cheeks, leaving his face stretched and distorted, looking more monstrous than human. A chill ran up Ben's spine, and he shivered in spite of himself. It was odd the things a man could recall after the fact, haunting details that were ignored at the time. Kane hadn't looked human in the dream—Ben knew that now. Of course, Kane didn't really have business looking human because he wasn't human at all. He was a demon—Ben knew that too.

But what he didn't know was where his oldest son had gone, or why Sheriff Coffee had come calling so suddenly.

"Joseph, why is the sheriff here?" Ben asked, his voice remaining calm despite the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Once so afraid of leaving the safety of his room, it didn't make sense for Adam to be missing from the room. Unless... "Is Adam with Hoss? Tell me your brother is alright."

Joe hesitated, sucking in a deep shuttering breath before answering in a choked whisper, "Adam did something bad... _Oh, Pa_... He did something real, real bad."

"Where _is_ Adam?"

"Frank Mitchel was attacked during the night…"

"_Where is_ Adam?"

"…his throat was cut."

"_Where is Adam_?!"

Bottom lip trembling Joe hesitated. It was a single quiet moment that felt longer to Ben than any he had ever endured. "Jail, Pa," Joe whispered thickly. "He's in jail."

And that was when Ben felt what was left of the steady ground crumble beneath his feet. It was when he knew everything he had suspected and thought about Adam and Kane was wrong.

It was all so incredibly wrong.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

Sheriff Coffee said Frank Mitchel was dead.

Adam was the one who killed him— Coffee said that too. When Ben pressed him for more information, questioning how he could be so certain of such a thing, Coffee looked upon Ben and was slow to reply.

"Adam turned himself in," he said finally. "He owned up to it, Ben. I didn't want to believe it, myself. I know he's been havin' difficulties as of late. Problems with his mind and such. I wanted to believe it was some story he had made up. But judging by the looks of him, I couldn't. He's covered in blood that isn't his own, and when I asked him to lead me to Mitchel's body, he did. Adam knew exactly where to find him, even turned over the knife he used to cut the man's throat."

Even with these words, Ben was hesitant to believe the truth.

Time seemed to slow down during the ride into town. The winter air was frigid and cold, biting and freezing Ben's sparsely exposed skin; it was the most agonizing trip Ben could ever remember enduring for a multitude of reasons. Their pace and the snow, the prolonged silence of the men riding in his company, Hoss and Joe and Sheriff Coffee, and truth that echoed maddingly in the depths of his mind. Prompted by what Kane told him in his dream, he thought about ghosts and games, the Silver Dollar, and the true identity of who Adam saw. He knew now what he supposed he should have known a long time ago.

When they arrived at the jail, Ben found Doc Martin sitting with Adam, not inside the cell which contained him rather on a chair next to the exterior of the bars. Contrary to the reason which had prompted their visit, it was a comforting sight. Ben was grateful both the sheriff and the doctor had cared enough to ensure Adam wasn't left alone.

"Hello, Ben," Martin greeted quietly, his face set in an indecipherable mask. "Adam and I just had quite the conversation."

"He spoke to you?" Hoss asked. Standing next to his father, his surprise was clear.

"He did," Martin affirmed.

"What did he say?" Little Joe pressed skeptically.

Shaking his head, Martin didn't answer the question as he stood and expelled a hearty sigh.

"I'd like to be alone with my son," Ben said.

Sheriff Coffee looked at Doc Martin whose attention did not waiver from Ben.

"Good," Martin said. "I believe the two of you have a lot to discuss." He looked at Adam. "I will return," he promised. "I think this is far from over, despite what you believe."

Ben was taken aback by the assurance; given recent history, he couldn't conceive of Adam speaking to anyone other than himself. Of course, he couldn't conceive of Adam killing anyone either, so maybe his expectations of his son were drastically lower than they should have been.

"Pa," Hoss said. "I think me and Joe should stay."

"I want you both to leave too," Ben instructed, his eyes locked on his eldest son behind the steel bars.

"But, Pa," Joe protested.

"I mean it," Ben said firmly, his tone leaving no room for further disagreement. Looking at Coffee, he nodded at the jailcell. "I want in there. I don't care if you lock us both in, but I want to be next to my son when I speak to him."

"Alright," Coffee said. Unlocking the door, he pulled it open slightly. "I suppose I can trust you to do the right thing," he added, looking Ben up and down before following the others out of the room.

Thudding heavily against the floorboards the soles of Ben's boots seemed to echo around the room as he approached his son.

Sitting on the side of the cot in the very back of the jailcell, Adam was shaking, his skin glistening with sweat and blood. For a moment, Ben thought the action was compulsive and maniacal, driven by the fear he had become so accustomed to seeing his son display. Then he realized it wasn't fear making Adam's body quiver and shake. It was the temperature of the room.

Missing his jacket, Adam's shirt was marred by sporadic bloodstains. Some small and others large, they were all still wet, prevented from drying by the bitter cold seeping in from the bar-covered window. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, pushed back to expose his bloodstained hands. Balls of packed snow still clung to the bottom of his pant-legs; warmed slightly by the heat of the distant fire contained in fireplace beyond the cell, they melted at a leisurely pace to form a small puddle collecting around the soles of his boots.

His boots, Ben snorted woefully. Adam may had been without a jacket but at least he had put on boots. He kept his clothes on too—which was an odd thing to find reassurance in. It was the first time in a long time such a thing had happened. It was the first time in a long time for a lot of things, the most glaring of which was Adam venturing outside of the safety of their home and property. He had risen, dressed, and left on his own. He had gone to the timber camp and now he was in town; it was a journey he had completed alone.

Well, maybe not completely alone if the Kane in Ben's dreams was to be believed. And he was; looking at Adam, Ben knew that, because this Adam—despite the blood staining his hands and clothes and the chill consuming his body—he was decidedly different than the one he had been the day before.

Looking directly at his father, Adam's eyes were no longer clouded with apprehension, anxiety and fear; they glistened with acceptance and resolution and a slight hint of sadness. He looked so much like the son Ben knew and missed that he hesitated in place, mournfully assessing his son from mere paces away. It was overwhelming to look at him now, to see in Adam's face and eyes a version of his son he wanted so badly so see again and be forced to reconcile this want—this need—with the blood on his clothes and hands. Red and accusing, it declared a new truth, one which would not—could not—be ignored.

Frank Marshal was dead. Adam had killed him and for what reason Ben didn't know. What difference did it make? Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and actions always came with consequences. It was almost too much to think about—and see. Heart clenching in his chest, Ben was overwhelmed by a trio of emotions he had become accustomed to, grief, fear and guilt. If he wouldn't have dreamed of Kane and been so determined to speak with him would he have slept light enough to wake when Adam rose from his bed? Would he have been able to stop him from doing what he had done?

Would anything have stopped their lives from becoming what they had?

When his vision became blurry with tears, he turned around and looked at the floor. Taking a moment to clear his throat and regain control of his emotions.

"It's okay to cry," Adam said. "You don't have to hide your emotions from me." Low and even, his voice sounded stronger than it had in months. He sounded normal; he sounded sane. "Jesus, Pa, how long have I been at your side? You don't have act like I haven't seen you do such a thing before."

Taken aback by the normalcy of Adam's tone and words, Ben had no choice but to look at him again, and when he did he found Adam gaze did not waiver from his own. For the first time in months Adam was confident enough to look him in the eye without coaxing or prompt. His expression was set in a mask of calm determination. He still thin, but save for the blood, everything about Adam suddenly felt so certain, so familiar, despite knowledge of what he done. This horrifying, brutal, violent unpredictable thing. Adam had killed Mitchel, there was no question about that, but his appearance did beg another. It was almost as though a veil of darkness had been suddenly lifted, the cloud that had been rendering Adam so incapable of functioning properly had dispersed, leaving him inexplicably whole again.

"You sound..." Ben struggled for words. His son took a man's life. How could that possibly leave him better rather than worse? "...You look..."

"Different? Better?" Adam asked. "Yeah, I know."

He sounded so much like he was supposed to that Ben almost sunk to his knees, first because of the relief he felt, then because of the weight of knowing what Adam had done to Mitchel. He had killed a man and now he was in jail, patiently awaiting what would come next. There would be a request made for the presence of a circuit judge, a trial and a verdict, and gallows built for all to see. There was no denying it, and there was no way out. Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and Adam's actions were punishable by law, tall gallows, and carefully braided rope.

_That's gonna be me out there,_ Adam had whispered breathlessly as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth. At the time, it had been an outrageous declaration, born from confusion and misplaced guilt. Now, however, the memory of the words seemed to be something else entirely. A prophetic statement; a premonition Adam had experienced months ago.

Ben's stomach violently turned. He was certain he was going to be sick. His knees threated to give out beneath him, but he forced himself to remain upright. He couldn't fall on the ground now; if he did, he would never be able to summon enough strength to get up.

"It's okay to be disappointed," Adam said, his assurance sounding rehearsed.

Given recent history, it was odd to hear such a levelheaded response. Ben had become accustomed to taking care of him, of reassuring and comforting him, it felt foreign for Adam to be offering condolences or for Ben to accept them.

"It's okay to be upset about what I did," Adam said.

"What you did," Ben repeated numbly, the words feeling so wrong as they rolled off his tongue. "Son, do you understand what you did?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why you did it?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me," Ben implored. "Help me understand."

Pursing his lips firmly, Adam hesitated for a moment, then clasped his hands in front of him and looked at the wet floorboards at his feet. "I killed Frank Mitchel."

"Why?"

Lifting his hands in the air, Adam open his mouth to voice a reply that seemed destined to never come.

"Did he seek you out?" Ben asked when he grew tired of waiting. "Did he show up at the house looking for you?"

"No."

"Did he threaten you?"

"No."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Then why, Adam?"

Again, Adam hesitated.

"Tell me the truth," Ben said. "Say it now, because, given the circumstances, you may not be allotted another chance."

"I want to," Adam said softly. "But…"

"You're afraid."

Adam shook his head. "No. I was, but I'm not anymore."

"What could possibly be stopping you then?"

Eyes roaming the small jailcell, Adam didn't reply. Ben wondered if he was looking for something—or someone, rather. He wondered if the ghost Kane had alluded to was in the room, carefully watching them and controlling Adam's willingness to speak. It was then, Ben knew it was time to address what he knew—the conclusion Kane had prompted him to reason in his dream. It was time to stand beside his son in a fight they seemed so destined to lose. He should have known the truth long before now. As Kane had said, he had the clues—all along he had—he just couldn't seem to connect one behavior or event to another, putting them together to form a clear understanding of what was going on. He hadn't known before but he knew now, and it was knowledge he would share in effort to finally help and comfort his son.

"Is Ross stopping you?" Ben asked simply. Gaze snapping to his own, the sheer surprise in Adam's eyes declared his father's suspicion as truth. "Ross is who you see," he added. "He's who you've seen all along. His ghost was haunting you long before you went to Eastgate."

"He was," Adam carefully whispered.

"He isn't anymore?"

Again, Adam's gaze roamed the room. "I don't think so..." he said. "Unless... unless he's decided upon a new game."

"Game?"

Adam dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "I don't see him, Pa. I think he's gone."

"You think or you know?" Ben challenged.

"I can't know anything for sure."

Given the dire circumstances, it was not a satisfactory response. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"It's been awhile."

"Days? Hours? Minutes?"

"Hours. I haven't seen him since..." Cringing painfully, Adam abandoned his disclosure.

"Since when?" Ben pressed.

"Since after I killed Mitchel."

"He wanted you to kill Mitchel." It wasn't a question, still Adam nodded. "Why?"

"Because…" Adam began, then stopped. He wasn't so much hesitant to speak as overly thoughtful, struggling to properly explain the inexplicable.

"Why, Adam?" Ben demanded, the question the fiercest he had posed to his son in a while. He wouldn't tolerate it remaining unanswered. There was little point in not speaking the truth now.

"Because," Adam said again, expelling the word with a heavy sigh. "Because… nobody knows the truth of what happened, so nobody could hold Frank responsible for what he did. Pa, this whole-time people have believed that Ross went crazy, that there was no explanation for what he did or why. People think they know what Ross did, but they don't know. Not really."

"And you do."

"Of course, I do. Ross made sure of it. He told me the truth, Pa. He said it over and over again. He made sure I knew, so I would never forget."

"What is this truth?"

"Ross wasn't sane when he died. We all saw examples of that in his behavior toward the end. He changed. The truth changed him, because it was wasn't something he could share. It was a secret; it was a heavy burden he was forced to carry. It warped his perception, broke his heart and crushed his soul. It was too much for him. The pain he felt became too much and it changed him. It made him spiteful and violent. It made him forget who he was, what he should have been able to do."

"And what is that?"

"He should have been able protect Del. He should have known better than to place his trust in a man who wasn't who he seemed to be."

"Frank Mitchel wasn't who he seemed to be," Ben said simply. It was an easy enough deduction, Mitchel the most glaring link between Adam and his deceased friends.

"Ross trusted him; he trusted him with the things he held most dear. Frank betrayed that trust, and worse than that, he did it in a way that he knew neither Ross nor Del would ever want to hold him responsible for."

"Will you please say the truth outright—?"

"Frank attacked Del."

"What?"

"He forced himself on her, Pa."

"When?" Ben probed, his stomach turning with renewed force.

Adam shook his head. "Does that really matter now?"

"Considering Mitchel is dead I would say the reason why is quite important given the circumstances."

"It was a month or two before Ross pulled his gun on me, before everything he and Del had begun to really fall apart."

"Did Ross tell you this?"

"No... Del did."

"Before she died."

"No... after."

"Son?"

"I see them both," Adam admitted softly. "They both linger, reaching out to me, making me listen to their secrets and regrets, their fury and resentment toward the living. They're not like they were when they were alive, neither one of them are. They're evil, frightening and cruel and _dangerous_. They will do anything to get their way."

"And their way was seeing Frank Mitchel dead."

"No... That was Ross's way. Del's is something else entirely. It's impossible to satisfy them both," Adam said sadly. "It's foolish to even try."

Leaning forward, Adam planted his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him. He was still shaking from the cold, his gaze frozen on the blood staining his hands.

Ben felt suddenly remiss, neglectful of his son's most obvious of needs. Striding to the cot, he grabbed a blanket which lay at the foot, unfolded it and wrapped it tightly around his son's shoulders. It wasn't enough to chase the chill from Adam's body and warm him but at least it was something. Sitting next to his son, he leaned forward, unconsciously copying Adam's posture while pressing their knees tightly together. He knew the physical contact wasn't enough to soothe either of them, but at least it was something.

"You did try to satisfy them both," Ben asked softly. "Didn't you? Even in death, you tried to help them, because that's who you are. It's what you do. Is that why Frank is dead?"

Adam inhaled a deep, hissing breath. "I didn't want to do it, Pa," he whispered, exhaling the words with his breath. "I need you to know that. If I would have had a choice, I wouldn't have done what I did."

"How far back does this go? How long have you been making decisions where you felt like you had no other choice?"

"A while. It seems like forever since I've done anything by my own volition."

Ben wouldn't disagree. How long had it been since Adam made a decision solely based on his own needs and desires? He was hard-pressed to recall an example. But he recalled other things, things he had heard from others and not the son who sat before him. "Hoss told me about the cliff; Joe told me about your nightmares; and Kane told me it wasn't him you see."

"He told you about Ross?"

"You should have told me."

"I tried," Adam admitted. "That's why I came back into the house before I left for Eastgate. I wanted to tell you then, but I just _couldn't_. I knew you were nervous about that trip. What you didn't know was that I was too. I didn't want to go. I had to."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't my choice anymore. I had to go into that desert. I had to find Kane."

"For what reason?" Ben demanded deeply. Though the question sounded harsher than he intended, he felt no remorse; he made no apology for his firmness. He was both baffled and disgusted his son would ever seek out the demon of his dreams.

"Help," Adam said. "I wanted—_needed_—his help."

"You should have come to me for help."

"I couldn't."

"You could have, you didn't. You were having trouble after Ross and Del's deaths, that much was obvious to anyone around you. You were struggling; you were fighting something. All this time I thought it was pain, regret and guilt because of how things ended. But now I think—in fact, I'm sure I know—it wasn't just those things. It was something else too. I thought you were angry at me; first because I failed to protect you from having to take the life of your best friend, then later because I didn't know how to help you with your grief. I was too soft on you and then I was too hard; you needed me to be somewhere in the middle, firmly holding you close and in place when all you wanted was to push me away and run."

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

Ben didn't agree. "It would have changed everything. When did this begin? When was the first time you saw Ross and Del after they died?"

Taking deep breath, Adam held it, his pregnant pause only serving to reawaken Ben's worry.

"When Adam?" he prompted, his voice low.

Adam exhaled, expelling the breath in a low groan. "It wasn't long after we buried them," he admitted, his voice hauntingly quiet.

It was dark and quiet; I woke up in the middle of one night so convinced that I was still stuck in a dream. I saw Ross. He looked like he did the last time I saw him but different too. I didn't…

Del was in my bedroom, standing over my bed. She looked so much like she did when she was alive but different too. I didn't… I thought it was a dream—a nightmare, really. He said things to me I wish I never would have heard. He told me the truth about Del and Mitchel and a lot of other things. With these words he told me what made him change so drastically before he died."

"And what was that?"

"Frank laid with Del."

"So you said."

"He left her with child."

Ben was repulsed. "_What?_"

"Del was frightened and ashamed; it took everything for her to tell Ross what happened, and then it took a little more to convince him not to go the sheriff. She didn't want anyone to know what happened; she wanted to forget it instead. When she realized she was with child, she knew immediately it wasn't Ross's. When she told him, Ross went mad over it, Pa. Without a baby, he may have been able to move on; but he couldn't do that if he was forced to raise a child that was proof of the shameful interaction. It weighed on him, until he couldn't think straight. He couldn't accept the truth."

"Ross began to blame Del for her condition," Ben said. "That's why he raised his hand to her toward the end. But why did she involve you?"

"She needed somebody to protect her. She thought I could help them both." Adam snorted forlornly. "Even in death, she still thinks that, though she has different ways of asking now."

"What kind of ways?"

Adam shook his head. "I wanted to tell you," he repeated. "Believe me, Pa. When I started seeing them, when they began haunting me, I wanted to tell you. I just…" he shrugged helplessly. "... couldn't seem to get the words to come out of my mouth. Ross didn't want me to talk. He had ways of keeping me quiet, and so did Del."

"And now?" Ben asked. "What's changed to allowed you so freely speak?"

"Mitchel is dead. Ross finally got his way."

"What about Del? Or Kane?"

"Del can't have what she wants," Adam said cryptically. "And Kane'll have what I promised him soon enough."

"What about you? What do you want?"

"Me? There's no room for what I want in any of this, not anymore. I murdered a man. I committed a crime it and I owned up to it. I'm guilty, so I'll hang. No man is above the law, no matter the circumstances that led him to commit his crimes."

It was the most Adam-like statement Ben had heard in a while, still it prompted no joy or relief. In spite of everything, Adam's moral compass hadn't shifted, and his beliefs hadn't changed. Things were right or they were wrong; actions were acceptable or punishable. He had done wrong and he accepting of the consequences.

"This is what you want," Ben whispered sadly. "You may not have wanted to kill Mitchel but you turned yourself in."

"I'm tired. I want this to be over. I don't think I care what it takes to end it, not anymore."

"I care," Ben whispered. It was a quiet statement of resolve that went ignored by his son.

Extending his arm, Ben cupped the back of Adam's neck, then pulled him close to his side. Holding his son in a tight half-hug, Ben tried to ignore how Adam didn't reciprocate the action. How different he felt in comparison to how he had been in recent weeks. He couldn't help likening this moment to the interpretations of before and after only to find his definition of before and after had changed.

Before Mitchel's death Adam was fearful and hesitant. After he was somber and resolute in what he had decided would happen next. He had done wrong and he was determined to take responsibility for it. It was an admirable decision though Ben struggled to see as such.

There had to be a way out of this; there had to be some silver lining of hope, some defense that could acquit Adam of his crime. He wasn't justifying what his son had done but Adam wasn't the only guilty party. Frank Mitchel had done wrong too. There had to be some way to prove it. There had to be some fight they could wage. There had to be something he could do; there had to be some way he could hold on to Adam. He had to hold on to him; he had promised he would never let go.

Eventually, though, he had to let go, when Sheriff Coffee entered the room and approached the jail cell once more. "Ben," he said with a nod. "Doc and me have been talkin' and now we need to talk to you."

Glancing between Adam and Sheriff Coffee, Ben hesitated, unwilling to leave his son's side. "Can't we speak in here?"

"Best not," Coffee said. "Given the circumstances, I think we ought to speak in private."

"It's okay, Pa," Adam said. "I'll be fine by myself."

"Except you ain't gonna be by yourself," Hoss said as he and Joe emerged from behind Sheriff Coffee. "It's alright, Pa. Joe and me are gonna sit with our older brother here, while you and Roy and Doc do your talkin'."

Ushering Ben up and off the cot, Hoss took his father's place and Joe sat on the opposite side of his oldest brother.

"It's okay, Pa," Joe said. "We're not going to leave him. Adam ain't going to be alone ever again."

"You do your talkin'," Hoss said. "We'll all be waiting here when you get done."

In spite of his son's assurances, Ben still hesitated. Standing in place, he looked upon his sons as they sat next to each other, trying hard to memorize the moment, dreadfully wondering if it was the last time he would ever see such a thing.

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

"There ain't gonna be no trial," Coffee said dismissively.

Sitting behind his desk, he leaned over, opening a drawer to procure a half-full bottle of whiskey. Pulling the cork, he abandoned it on the desktop, tipping the neck of the bottle over the lip of his coffee cup as he poured a generous amount into his stale morning coffee.

"What does that mean?" Ben asked. Coffee raised the bottle in offering and he waived it away; an obvious motion of decline that was ignored by the sheriff as he grabbed an empty coffee mug and competed another generous pour. Sliding the mug across the desk, Coffee picked up his own and leaned back in his seat, sipping the liquid thoughtfully.

"I suggest you drink that," Doctor Martin said. Sitting on the opposite side of the desk as Coffee, he looked between Ben and the mug. "You're going to need it."

"Meaning what?" Ben snapped.

"Meaning our impending conversation is not an easy one," Martin said seriously.

Ben stared warily at the mug, his stomach turning. He looked at the sheriff, then at the doctor, wondering if there was anything that would calm the pain he felt. "What's going to happen now?" he quietly asked. "Adam killed Frank Mitchel; he admitted it you and he admitted it to me."

Averting his gaze, Sheriff Coffee finished the contents of his mug, then refilled it. He took a series of small sips before placing the mug on the desk, smoothing the tip of his index finger up and down the chipped handle. "Like I said," he sighed finally, "there ain't going to be no trial. That story Adam told about Frank Mitchel doing what he did to Delphine Marquette, that ain't the first time I've heard that sort of tale with regards to Mitchel. It's the first time I heard anything about him and Del, but I don't doubt it. He had a violent way with women, or so I've heard."

"You heard about Mitchel's actions?" Ben asked. "And you didn't do anything about it?"

"I never heard nothin' directly," Coffee corrected. "It ain't like I didn't ask the questions. If'n young ladies don't want to talk then I can't make them. I can't do nothing if people don't want me to. All I had was rumor and that ain't fact."

"You knew and you did nothing."

"There wasn't nothing to do. Like I said, I never heard no guff about Frank hurting Delphine. With the way Ross loved that gal, I can't say I'm surprised it was a secret he kept. She was a proud woman; Ross woulda done just about anything she asked him to."

"This isn't about Ross and Delphine Marquette."

Coffee blinked, seemingly surprised by the statement. "Ain't it?"

Taking a deep breath, Doctor Martin cleared his throat, stealing Ben's attention from the sheriff. "Ben," he said, leaning slightly forward in his chair. "I don't know the details of what Adam just told you, but he told Roy and I that he killed Frank Mitchel because Ross Marquette asked him to…"

"I know," Ben interjected.

"… yesterday," Martin finished. "Adam said Ross asked him to kill Frank _yesterday_. He said he asked him to do it the day before that one and the one before that."

"Adam said Ross's been after him for a while to do what's he done," Coffee affirmed.

"Adam has been struggling for quite some time," Martin added, casting Ben a serious look. "You and I have had lengthy conversations about his mental state, the things he is and is not capable of. Something happened to him when he went missing in the desert; it changed him."

Ben wanted to say something had happened to his son long before Adam disappeared into the desert outside of Eastgate but didn't. He was determined to remain silent on topics that could threaten Adam's future, complicating it any more than his actions already would.

"Something happened to Ross Marquette toward the end too," Coffee said. "Wife beatin', stage robbing, murdering. The boy went downright mad, doin' all sorts of stuff we never thought him capable of. Now, according to Adam, the pain of what Frank Mitchel did to his wife was what changed Ross on the inside, drivin' him insane. Adam tried to help Ross and when he couldn't help, he was the one that killed him."

"Is there a point to this conversation?" Ben asked. "You ask to speak with me privately and then two of you talk in riddles, doing everything you can not to tell me what you plan to do. Ross Marquette is dead, what is the point of speaking about his actions now? You tell me what is going to happen to my son? What is going to happen to _Adam_?"

Leaning back in his chair, Coffee sighed, as though he summoning the nerve to say the words which were destined to escape his mouth. "Ross and Adam were close," he said. "They shared a lot of things, Ben. People used to call them brothers, hell, people used to call them twins."

"I know all of that."

"Ross Marquette accused Adam of messing around with his wife."

"I know that too."

"Frank Mitchel accused him of the same."

Ben was dumbfounded. "What?"

"Awhile back, when Adam was going through his other bout of _difficulties_, drinking and womanizing—"

"Womanizing," Ben interrupted. He was well aware of the time period being referenced, Adam's disorderly behavior and disruptive habits after Delphine and Ross's deaths. He knew Adam had engaged in illicit activities, frequenting both the lower and upper levels of multiple saloons on multiple occasions, but he took offense to his son's past behavior being summarized so flippantly.

Coffee shook his head dismissively. "The ladies Adam used to keep company with don't really matter," he said. "The guff between he and Frank Marshal does. They fought often back then. Got themselves tossed in jail on more than one occasion. They did not get along; the whole town knew that then and they know it now."

"I don't care what people think they know," Ben huffed.

"You should."

"I don't."

Looking at Ben, Coffee appeared to consider how his next words would be received. "Frank and Adam didn't get along," he said. "They hated each other. Still, that ain't what Adam said motivated him to kill Frank. He said he killed him because Ross Marquette told him to."

"You already said that."

"Yeah," Coffee said. "I know, but I'm not sure you really heard me. Ross has been dead for nearly two years, Ben; he ain't telling nobody to do anything. Adam said Ross talks to him. He said Ross wanted revenge for what had happened to Delphine and that's why he had to kill Frank."

"Did Adam tell you Del was with Frank's child?" Ben asked.

"He did." Coffee nodded. "He said knowledge of that was what drove Ross mad."

"And?"

"And, given Frank's history, think I believe him. Looking back now, it makes sense. Mitchel attacked Delphine and Ross was forced to ignore how he failed his wife. And when he found out there was going to be child involved, it drove him crazy; changed him a little at a time, pushed him closer and closer to the edge before he finally ended up jumping, or being pushed, I suppose. After all, Adam was the one who ended up killin' him."

"That was self-defense."

Brows furrowing, Coffee frowned, his face etched with disappointment. "Ain't nobody questioning what happened between Ross and Adam back then. In fact, I ain't questioning what happened between Mitchel and Adam this morning. For what it's worth, I do believe Mitchel attacked Delphine. I know Mitchel was a difficult man, prone to drinking too much and violence. He took what he thought was owed to him with no regard of the cost to others. He was a wanderer; he went wherever, whenever he took a mind to. I'm sure he done a lot of bad things; and I am sure what was done to him was a long time coming. No, sir." Tilting his head thoughtfully, he sighed. "I didn't much care for that man. Of course, that doesn't justify what Adam did, and don't change why he did it. Adam said a dead man asked him to kill somebody. That ain't normal. In fact, that's damn near the most terrifying motive for murder I've ever heard in my life."

"Hallucinations aren't real," Martin said. "The fact that Adam not only sees but listens to and follows the direction of a figment of his mind is disturbing to say the very least."

"Disturbing," Ben repeated flatly. It wasn't the word he would have chosen. Horrendous, excruciating, insufferable. Not disturbing; there were so many other more poignant words to use than that.

True was the first word that refused to dismissed. Terrifying was another. He believed Adam wholeheartedly now; he knew without question that what his son had told him was truth. He was being frequented by ghosts, his behavior impacted—influenced—by their wishes and demands. He knew this was true, just as he knew the men sitting before him never would. It was ludicrous to expect them to. Preposterous to think, even for a moment, the motive for Adam's actions would ever be believed.

"My son," Ben said, his voice low and serious. How could he possibly say the truth in a way which would be believed? He looked at the mug in front of him, wanting so badly to drink it now, swallowing its contents in an effort to soothe his nerves. "He has been… _impaired_ as of late."

"We are all well aware of that," Martin said. "Do you realize this is the first time he's been to town for…" he paused, his face contorting sadly. "Well, for a long time. The last time you and I spoke you told me you believed he was seeing things. You asked me if you should believe in the things he sees and I told you no. I'm sorry, Ben; I should have listened to you better, and I should have made you listen to me."

Ben refused to acknowledge the apology, to allow himself to consider how things could—should—have been different than they were. If Martin would have supported Ben in his belief would that have changed anything? If Ben would have followed Martin's advice and not told Adam he believed him would he be sitting in a jailcell now?

"What is going to happen to him?" Ben asked.

"He's not gonna like it," Coffee said. "Matter-of-fact, neither are you. Recent events aside, I would like to think I know Adam pretty well. I'd like to think I know you pretty good too. I know what kind of men you both are. I know that if'n he wasn't having difficulties of the mind, then Adam never would have done what he did. I know that knowin' what your son did has got to be killing you, and God help me but I don't it's got to kill him too."

"What Roy is saying..." Martin interjected.

"There ain't going to be no trial," Coffee said, holding his hand in front of his chest. "Ross and Del and Frank…" Hand clenched into a tight fist, he lifted a single finger as he said each respective name, keeping tally of the deceased. "I think there's been enough suffering, enough pain and tragedy and death surrounding this situation. I ain't adding to it. I ain't charging Adam with anything. Like I said, I heard things about Frank; Adam's claims don't exactly surprise me. His actions do, but a jury and a noose ain't going to do nothin' to ease that shock. Adam is a good boy; we all know that. He's just… well…he's confused; a mite impaired like you said."

It was somehow the most consolatory and dismaying thing Ben had ever heard; he was certain Adam's reaction, his emotions regarding such a decision would be more align with the latter. He had killed a man and then admitted to his crime knowing what the punishment would be. He didn't anticipate not being held responsible for his actions; he hadn't planned on being allowed to walk free. Adam was such a moral man. Ethical and virtuous. There was no gray area when it came to behavior; actions were right or they were wrong. Men were always required to pay for their sins.

"I can take him home?" Ben asked, feeling oddly nervous over the prospect. Adam had gone weeks—months—without talking, sleeping, or eating; he had done everything he could to keep his family at a distance and that was when he was struggling with crippling anxiety and fear. What was he going to be capable of now that actually had a tangible reason to suffer? To be held responsible for the wrong he had done?

"No," Coffee said. "You can't."

For one shameful moment, Ben felt a rush of relief, then it was quickly overtaken by protective rage. "Why not?" he demanded. "If you aren't going to charge him with anything, then this has become a private _family_ matter."

Sheriff Coffee and Doctor Martin exchanged a sad look.

"It was," Martin said.

"It ain't anymore," Coffee finished softly. "Adam committed a crime. He killed man in cold blood; I can't just let him go."

"You just said—"

"I just said I ain't involvin' no circuit judge or jury," Coffee said, "that don't mean Adam isn't gonna be held responsible for his actions.

"Ben," Martin implored. "Adam's mind hasn't been right for a while. His behavior has been irrational, erratic. You and I have shared many conversations about him. You were worried before and I know you're worried now. He has become a danger to both others and himself—"

"He is not a danger to anyone," Ben said firmly. It was such an irrational statement at this point. Ludicrous and blatantly false, he wondered why he had said it.

"He killed a man because a figment if his imagination told him to," Martin said. "He did that today. What is he going to do tomorrow?"

"He doesn't see Ross anymore," Ben said. Though he couldn't possibly admit to agreeing with the doctor's apprehension, he was worried too. Yesterday he couldn't have imagined Adam was capable of leaving the house alone. What _would_ he do tomorrow? "He told me he doesn't."

"He doesn't see him _right now_," Martin said gently. "There's no way of predicting if that will remain true."

"I can protect him. I can keep his behavior contained."

"You can't," Martin said.

"You didn't," Coffee added softly.

"Then what are you suggesting?" Ben pressed. "If there isn't going to be a trial, if Adam isn't being charged and I can't take him home, then what option does that leave? Prison?"

Neither Coffee nor Martin were eager to reply. Coffee looked at Martin whose gaze did not waver from Ben's as he finally began to softly speak. "Of course not. Adam's violent behavior notwithstanding, I do not believe he would do well in prison. His mental state is too delicate to be agreeable to such a thing."

"He killed a man this morning," Ben said absently, the statement seeming so wrong and irrefutable at the same time.

"He did," Martin agreed. "And that's why he needs you to understand what needs to happen now. You and I spoke not so long ago about options, the places Adam could go that could help him better than you have been able to."

Closing his eyes, Ben had a nightmarish vision of the place being alluded to. A lugubrious institution meant to contain people rather than help them, hiding them away from society's view. Opening his eyes, he looked between Coffee and Martin, his lips frowning a disapproving frown. "You're asking me to send my son away."

Martin shook his head sadly. "No," he said.

"We ain't asking anything, Ben," Coffee said. "Like I said before, it ain't up to you no more. Your son committed a crime. I can't just let him go. Of course, I can't let him stick around either."

"He is a danger to himself," Martin said. "And others. This is for the best. It really is."

"I may not have cared much for Frank Marshal," Coffee said. "I may believe he finally got what was coming to him but that don't change what Adam done. It don't mean I can ignore what else he might be capable of. I'm sorry. I am. I have a responsibility to the people of this town, your son included. I need to do right by all of them. I need to keep them safe."

Though Coffee and Martin continued their conversation, Ben didn't hear another word they said. He was too preoccupied dreading the future to pay the present further mind. For him, the passing of time seemed to quicken and slow.

Arrangements for Adam were made swiftly—much quicker than Ben could have imagined such things could be planned. Martin sent word to a colleague back East, tickets for the early afternoon stage were purchased, and Ben sent Joe and Hoss to procure Adam new clothes.

In their absence, Ben helped Adam remove his bloodstained shirt and pants, stripping him down to his long-johns, cleaning his hair and exposed skin with soap and water, carefully erasing any hint of Frank Mitchel's blood. Adam accepted the help without comment or question; he gave no indication if he was pleased or disappointed by his father's administrations. Though he remained quiet, pliable and tolerant beneath Ben's careful motions, Adam's calm demeanor endured. He neither seemed upset nor afraid of what the afternoon would bring.

Sitting on the edge of the cot, holding his back erect, each bone of his spine seemed to painfully protrude, silently declaring his variable health. Adam had spoken, sounding so certain and familiar as he told his father the truth, but both his body and mind were still in the need of mending. He needed to eat better, gain weight and rebuild muscle; he needed his fear and anxiety to remain calm; he needed to rest and sleep. He needed to improve and maintain his progress, so that someday he could be allowed to come home.

"I want you to eat well," Ben instructed softly. "You clean each and every plate you're given, do you understand me?"

Adam didn't reply.

"I want you to follow orders," Ben continued. "You do whatever is asked of you when you are told. You listen, you rest, you get better, and... you come back to me." he hesitated, his palms gripping Adam's shoulders as he looked up at the ceiling with watery eyes. "This... what Doc Martin and Sheriff Coffee are doing for you is a gift. It is an opportunity, a second chance. Roy could have hung you for what you did, Adam, but he isn't. He could have put you on trial, put all of your confusion and mistakes on full display, but he didn't."

Adam didn't say anything; he didn't need to. Clearing his throat, Ben's eyes met those of his son and he saw everything that was being left unspoken. He saw everything Adam was thinking but wouldn't dare say. He should have been killed for he did—for what he allowed the ghost of Ross to implore him to do. He should be held responsible for his actions, not allowed to go away to an institution with the hope that one day he'd come back. Ben prayed Adam would one day come back. With the way he was looking at him, Ben wasn't sure his son would.

This wasn't what Adam had wanted—Ben had known that immediately. He had wanted to be punished—and more than that, he needed to be. Actions were right and they were wrong. Commendable or condemnable. Worthy of praise or punishment.

"Now, I know you're a man of integrity," Ben continued. "I know you're stubborn. I know that when your mind is decided it takes heaven and earth to change it. I know you don't make any serious decisions without first weighing the outcome. And I know you accept responsibility for all of your mistakes... you _have_ to accept responsibility for your mistakes. I know you know the seriousness of what you did; you killed Frank Mitchel anticipating what the future would hold."

"I'm supposed to hang," Adam whispered, quietly admitting an opinion his father already knew he held. "I'm not supposed to live. This was supposed to be over; killing Frank was supposed to put an end to it." Leaning forward, he held head his head in shaking hands. "A man is responsible for what he does. If he's guilty then he needs to be punished. I'm guilty; I killed Frank. I told the truth about it; I admitted to my crime, so I'm supposed to held accountable. I'm _supposed_ to be _punished_. That's the way the law works; it can't be different for me. I shouldn't be special. I shouldn't be allowed a second chance."

Kneeling in front of his son, Ben pulled Adam's hands from his face and held them tightly in his own. "Look at me, Adam," he said.

It took a moment for Adam to comply and when he finally did Ben recognized the fear in his son's eyes as readily as he deciphered what prompted it.

"I killed him, Pa," Adam whispered, his quiet voice pained. "He's dead. He's not coming back. He did wrong too, but he doesn't get a second chance. Why do I get one? What is so different about _me_? I've done wrong. I've done terrible things. How am I supposed to live with that? How am I supposed to live with any of it? I should be punished. Not rewarded. I shouldn't be allowed to live."

"This is hardly a reward," Ben said gently.

"They're only doing this because of you, you understand that, right? If I were anyone else in the world—anyone else's son—I'd get what was coming to me. I'd be punished properly for all of my sins. I need to be punished, Pa. I need to follow through on my promises, keep my word."

"Maybe this is your punishment," Ben said gently. "Dying is too easy. Living with this, that's going to be the difficult part." _Especially for you. _

"It's all been difficult. Nothing about anything has been easy."

"I know."

"I don't want to do this."

"I know."

"I don't want to go," Adam said, his voice slightly pleading. "This wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be over. I wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be done. This was supposed to be the end, but it isn't the end of anything. It's…" Adam hesitated, his attention shifting toward the opposite side of the jailcell.

Following his son's gaze, Ben couldn't see what his son was looking at, but it didn't matter; he was certain he understood his son's fear. Letting go of Adam's hands, Ben pulled him into his arms.

"How am I supposed to do this alone?" Adam asked.

"You're not alone. You're never alone." As soon as he said the words Ben wondered how comforting they really were. With or without his family, Adam was never really alone; he hadn't truly been alone for quite some time. Holding Adam closer and tighter than seconds before, he wondered who was standing in the corner. Whose ghost was lurking for only Adam to see?

"Adam, is someone in the corner? Do you still see—?"

"Pa."

It was Little Joe's voice which silenced Ben's probing question. It remained on the tip of his tongue where it was eventually forgotten as Hoss and Joe, Adam's new clothes in hand, joined them next to the cot and they sat speaking in hopeful, muted tones while time seemed to pass too quickly around them.

Xx

In the company of both Doctor Martin and his father, Adam's trip to the facility awaiting his arrival was completed first by stage and then by train. Due to complications of the frigid weather, it was a journey that took nearly a week. An agonizing span of time the end of which Ben both longed for and dreaded. Longed for because traveling alongside his painfully silent son in cold was a worrisome endeavor. He was consistently concerned over Adam's wellbeing, questioning whether his son was warm enough, eating enough, and as comfortable as he could be in their varying surroundings. He ensured Adam's coat remained buttoned, ceaselessly offered him a blanket, and at each meal pushed his son to eat more than he intended to. He dreaded their arrival to their final destination because he knew that once they did all of these things would no longer be in his control.

Adam spoke only when spoken directly to, answering in the fewest words possible; any bid for polite conversation from their unfamiliar traveling companions and strangers was promptly ignored. Ben, in turn, ignored Adam's blatant rudeness, dismissing any questionable expressions of those surrounding them with a polite apologetic smile. If Adam's lack of social grace wasn't indication to an outside eye of something awry then his physical proximity to his father surely was.

Despite recent events, Adam was neither comfortable nor confident amongst strangers. Though he tried hard not to think about it, Ben couldn't help wonder what kind of apprehensions and complications would arise when they finally arrived at their destination and he was forced to leave Adam's side for the foreseeable future. It something he had neither planned nor anticipated he would ever do—prior to Frank Mitchel's death of course. It was going to be a struggle for both of them; the uncertainty of the time Adam would spend away from his family and home a heart wrenching challenge the whole family would endure. Though Hoss and Little Joe would feel the sting of their distance more than Ben intended to. He had resigned himself to entrusting Adam's wellbeing to others, but he had no intention of leaving his son behind. He would remain in the same city as Adam for as long as required. He would visit him as often or as little as was allowed.

Doctor Martin warned Ben of the dangers of lingering, how his extended presence could hinder rather than help Adam's recovery, or at the very least make the transition more difficult to endure. Ben wouldn't entertain such criticisms. He had told Adam he wouldn't let go of him, and he intended to keep his promise for as long as he could.

It was Adam who had trouble letting go when the time finally came. Ben struggled too—though his own trepidation was drastically overshadowed by that of his eldest son. Standing outside of the locked gate of the steel fence surrounding the facility, Adam looked at the foreboding building and then at his father with wide eyes. Ben wanted to soothe him, utter firm words of comfort and encouragement, but he couldn't seem to form any words.

Composed of gray stone, the towering building looked dark and cold, daunting from afar. It looked like something out of a nightmare; a prison one could only imagine in their most horrible of dreams. Someone was screaming, a horrendous noise which echoed up from depths of the building to escape out the bar covered windows. It was a god-awful sound born from confusion, anguish and pain. Why wasn't someone putting a stop to it? Why wasn't someone helping whoever was so obviously distressed? Wasn't that what this place was supposed to be? Somewhere people could go for help? The agonizing answer was clear as soon as the question presented itself.

This place wasn't intended to help anyone it contained.

Once swallowed inside of its belly would Adam scream like that? Would anyone around him care if he did? Who was going to rescue him from his nightmares? Waking him the way Joe once did and allowing him to seek respite in their presence the way Hoss had?

Ben felt a rush of panic.

Who was going to hold Adam if cried? Who was going to stop him from hurting himself if he tried? Who was going to understand the lure of the Kane who lurked in dreams? And who was going to believe in the ghosts he saw?

No one in that building, Ben was sure.

_Can you hold on to me, Pa?_

The memory of Adam's words circled his brain in a torturous echo, taunting and torturing him with an irrefutable truth. Desperately trying to hold on the Adam, he failed to maintain proper grip. He had failed to deduce and understand the reality of their fight until it was too late, and from his bewilderment came misinterpretation, the reckless belief that he, himself, could ever truly understand what was going on. He had thought Kane was the enemy; he had believed it was his hold that Adam needed to fight. He had been wrong, because Kane had been nothing more than a clever distraction. Neither man nor human, he had interjected himself to cause further chaos, taunt, trick and distract, to derive pleasure from pain, anguish, and torture. He had been an enemy, the hold of which to fight and be feared, but he wasn't the entity pulling Adam into the wrong direction, pushing him toward what he had done.

What Adam had done, Ben cringed, the thought carrying a particularly painful edge, piercing his heart like a knife. Adam had killed a man; it was his action that had brought them all here.

The ominous building, stranding tall on the other side of the fence, cast an ominous shadow upon all of them, making their surroundings seem much too cold. There was snow in the air, tiny frozen flakes which fell all around them to collect in minuscule piles on the frosty ground. The weather in this territory was supposed to be tepid, mild in comparison to the winters back home. Though it was significantly less, somehow this snowfall felt colder, more daunting than the immense heaps they were accustomed to.

"How is this better than prison?" Ben asked, casting Doctor Martin an accusing look. "How does this place help anyone?" _And what is it going to do to my son?_ He didn't have strength or courage to voice the latter criticism aloud.

Martin ignored the accusation. "You aren't allowed inside, I'm afraid," he said.

"That's probably for the best." Standing between them, it was Adam who stated the obvious, his soft voice making him the sole focus of both their stares. "It's okay, Pa," Adam added, holding his father's pained gaze.

Ben wanted to say it wasn't okay, that neither of them could or would be as long as they stood in this place, in front of a building that meant to separate them for God only knew how long. It wasn't proper for Adam to express such condolences; it wasn't seemly for he to comforting his father while being presented with such an undetermined fate. The place Adam was headed was meant to help people, but how could it help a man whose beliefs in ghosts and demons where real rather than imagined? Not something to be corrected rather heeded and believed? It could not and it would not; Ben only hoped it would do neither harm nor good.

"Can you give us a moment," Ben asked. Eyes locked on Adam, he tilted his head at Martin, punctuating a request he would not tolerate being refused.

"Of course," Martin agreed before he stepped away.

"I want you to take direction," Ben said quietly. He repeated the tired instructions for what felt like the thousand time, praying that they would be remembered and heeded. "You do what you're told when you're told to do it, no matter what it is."

Lifting his hands, he adjusted the collar of Adam's jacket, lifting it to protect his neck from the cold. It was a pointless action; too little too late, but it gave him something to do with his hands, an excuse to hold on to his son one last time.

_I don't like it_.

The memory of Adam's words came rushing back, overwhelming him with an image of how they had stood in the Eastgate boarding house, Adam fussing over an unfamiliar shirt he didn't want to put on. It was a memory that was all too haunting and apt, because this—standing in front of his son, dreading to let him go—Ben didn't like either. Taking a deep breath, he gripped Adam's upper arms and held tight. He didn't want to let go; he wasn't sure he would be able to.

"Don't lose track of yourself in there," he said tightly. "Remember who are, where you come from and belong. Remember who I am, that I love and believe you, and I'm waiting out here to bring you back home."

Adam nodded. Brows knitting with anxiety, his jaw was clenched tight. At first Ben thought his son was struggling to keep his emotions in check, then he realized it was a fight Adam had already lost. Twin tears trailed down his cheeks, trickling down his freshly shaven cheeks. He hadn't wanted to shave his beard or cut his unruly hair; Ben had insisted it was done. He wanted Adam to look presentable as possible. Sane, lucid and level-headed, capable and willing to look after basic needs. He was capable of those things—Ben knew that and he wanted others to know it too.

"Don't be afraid," Ben reassured softly. It was a profound order—difficult if not completely impossible to adhere to.

"I'm not," Adam whispered. "I can't be, not anymore."

Nodding, Ben wiped at Adam's tears, drying his cheeks with his thumbs. Feeling oddly proud of the declaration, he pulled his son into an embrace. It was a hug that was fiercely reciprocated; they held on to each other a long time.

_Can you hold on to me, Pa? _

The excruciating echo returned, haunting Ben long after their embrace was broken, when Adam was pulled away from him and led into the building beyond the fence. After watching both Martin and Adam disappear into its obscure depths, he stood in place for a long time, unable to move as the inauspicious question rang mercilessly in his mind.

_Can you?_

END

Author Note: Don't be too saddened by this faux ending. The next installment of this series is called _Predisposition_; the first chapter will be posted soon. A great, big THANK YOU to all of you for reading and commenting. I appreciate you all more than you'll ever know.


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